


Raven Bones

by Midnight_Heir



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 1890s, Adult Frisk (Undertale), Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bara Sans (Undertale), F/M, Female Frisk (Undertale), Orphan Frisk (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Underfell W. D. Gaster, Undertale Monsters on the Surface
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2020-06-27 20:43:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Heir/pseuds/Midnight_Heir
Summary: There have been rumours of a party of monsters stalking the night. Draped in black and red, gaunt and tall, without a sliver of flesh on their bodies. They are protected by the Crown, given consent to mercilessly slaughter those who would do harm to man and monster alike within the realm. These monsters are known as The Queen’s Ravens, an elite force who hunt down the most infamous of offenders and syndicates. And they have just recruited their first human member . . . a young woman named Frisk.





	1. Ever-Growing Uncertainties

**Obituaries — 25th of March, 1895 ******

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**Mr. Fox, Dead - Music Composer, aged 37 ******

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**In the wee hours of the morning, composer and pianist Mr. Fox was found by his personal butler and maid-of-all-work screaming in his bed before succumbing to excessive bleeding from the mouth, nose and ears. His body was interred to University College Hospital, London before daybreak.**

**The aforementioned, known for his diverse range of music for both piano and concert— was to perform at the Royal Opera House for his new score pieces to a grand audience on the last day of the month. With the arrival of his premature death, the honour of conducting the concert will be determined at a later date. Unmarried, Mr. Fox has left all of his possessions and personal works to his remaining family for safekeeping. His family has arranged a private funeral service for the deceased and urged Mr. Fox’s adoring public to leave any flowers or letters to the deceased at his former residence in Bloomsbury where his family will collect later. ******

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**Upon his death, police had questioned Mr. Fox’s butler and maid for any information. However, there was no evidence of foul play from both. Post mortem inspection showed that the deceased had not consumed anything hazardous beforehand. The cause of death was due to a ruptured artery in the neck. ******

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~

Frisk fell back in the salon’s armchair, the white sheet soaking in the sweat from her neck. It was nearly done, almost everything had been accounted for in the room for the rest of the family to take away. What was taken was anything of value and what remained was anything that was too big to fit into a single carriage. It was like that for those who made a specific will to their estate; all of the important things of the deceased were given to family or friends and the rest had to be divided by either the relatives or the bank. She had lost count at how many ‘relatives’ came by to look around for such trinkets. Sadly, Frisk had no idea how well things were going with the rest of Mr. Fox’s former possessions back in America.

Alone in the room, she could no longer feel the once warm and friendly decor around her. The stains of old frames and photographs stared back at her from the gaudy wallpaper. The last of the drapes were taken, leaving her to deal with the strain of the midday sun on her eyes. What remained was a few cabinets, small tables, a footstool and one armchair, all draped in bleached linen. Had she been younger, she would have thought of them as misshapen ghosts who came over to keep her company. She could imagine her younger self drawing some faces on the sheets, just to give herself a little laugh.

But all that Frisk was left with was a plethora of pain. The pain of her muscles straining to pack everything before getting booted out of her once happy home. The pain of scrambling to find herself somewhere to stay before she had to leave. The pain of searching for a new job in an oversaturated field of work. 

Nevertheless, what pierced her the most was the loss of a friend . . .

She could remember everything so vividly on the night when he died that she hated herself for it. His screaming, his gagging, the unthinkable amount of blood that drained from his face. Yet, most of all, she could remember how helpless she was to revive him. All she could do was grab hold of his quivering hand and talk to him into keeping himself conscious.

Nonetheless, through his bloodied tears and sputtering, she remembered those words that crawled out of his mouth

_“I-I’m so s-sorry . . .”_

She begged him not to apologize, but her words never reached him. His convulsions began to fade, along with his strength.

The man whom she talked with every day, who treated her with unparalleled honesty, who thought of her as a faithful friend— was no more. There was nothing left but silence . . . and she loathed it.

She wished she could wake up once more to him gingerly playing his piano, fiddling around with a new score. With every new piece he made, Frisk would always linger close by and listen. Throughout those years of service, something about his music would make her want to dance, but only if the melody made her feet stir. Frisk could never keep still if someone played or sang a song she liked. It was just in her nature to move to the rhythm. Mr. Fox would always try to find her dancing to his music, saying that if it was good enough to make her twirl, then he would add it to his concerts. However, if the piece did not excite Frisk to dance, then he would have to rewrite it or discard it altogether.

_“You’re my best critic, Frisk. I wish I had someone you could dance with. It’s a shame to have you dance by yourself.” ___

____

____

_“M-Mr. Fox! I-I really . . . don’t need a partner . . .”_

_“Ha, ha! What’s that red face for? Looks like you want to.”_

_“I don’t know how. I’ve seen pictures of people dancing the polka, two-step and waltz, but it’s not the same as doing it yourself.”_

_“Do you want to learn how?”_

_“Of course!”_

_“Heh, as if I have to ask. I’ll teach you how, if you can make lunch without my help next time.”_

_“All right! I promise I won’t burn the eggs this time.”_

_“That’s what I like to hear. But I’ll add something else if you cook the eggs perfectly.”_

_“Like what?”_

_“I’ll promise to play at your wedding, for free of course. Only if I approve of him to be a good match for you.”_

_“W-Why do you always say those kinds of things?”_

_“What? It’s the least I can do for my favourite fan.”_

Tears began to roll down her cheeks, diminishing her memories into a mired mess.

_C’mon, Frisk. There’s no need to cry anymore. What would he think of you if he saw you still blubbering about him, eh?_

Footsteps squeaked in the hall, making her wipe her face and brow in a presentable manner in case another ‘relative’ came by. A sigh of relief came over her when it was only Reggie, the butler, already covered in pearls of sweat from his work in the kitchen.

“Gotcha lunch, Frisk. It isn’t much, but I thought something sweet would be better than some old loaf of bread getting mouldy in the larder.” In his free hand, he held a plate stacked with fresh ginger drop cakes.

Without having to put up a façade for someone she barely knew, she reclined back in her chair and gave him a casual smirk. “Better chuck that bread at one of those annoying relatives. Hopefully, it’ll scare them away and leave us in peace! Lord knows if one of his manic ‘fans’ starts climbing through the windows again.”

He breathed a chuckle. “I hope that’s the last we hear from them, again.”

At least, though all of this, Frisk had Reggie at her side. Matter of fact, he was the only support she had through the past several days. In all aspects, he was her senior, but only by a few years. He was young for a butler, almost too young considering he had not reached his thirties. His blonde hair would always get into his eyes, despite going to a barber to trim it every month. Even when he gave Frisk a plate of drop cakes, his hair would fall over his face as usual.

“I thought you had enough to get it cut this week,” she said cheekily, taking a bite from her cake.

Reggie shrugged, even with his hair matted with sweat, it still shone like gold. “With all of this nonsense, I would be lucky to get a trim next week. God, how do movers put up with this crap all day? I only did one room and I feel like my arms could fall off right now.”

A giggle escaped Frisk lips, at least a little bit of humour was welcomed then none at all. “Not used to manual labour, Reginald?”

While pulling up a small table and an ottoman for him to have lunch on, he let loose a deep groan. “I wish I could go back to when I was born and kick him in the gut for giving me that godforsaken name. I bet no other man would give their boy a name so pretentious.”

Frisk cocked her head to the side, clicking her teeth. “Then what about my name? Who would name their cute little girl Frisk?”

Reggie took a second to answer, due to him already finishing his first drop cake. “It's different, unique, simple to remember . . . not bogged down by family duty or obligation.”

Something about those words stung dully in her stomach. Ever since that awful morning, they were under the constant assault from Mr. Fox’s extended family. Grief, sorrow, doubt and anger poured out the moment they came in through the hospital ward where his body laid. All those tears. All those cries. Yet, it was the yelling that she remembered the most. Arms flailing, turning from pointed fingers into fists. It was like that for the first few moments until the hospital staff finally intervened when it got loud enough for them to be concerned.

The help was always the first to get blamed.

However, it was not just them. Families have the right to grieve when one of their kind dies, but when you have throngs of adoring admirers . . . that was a whole other beast. At first, they were humble enough to lay flowers and light candles at his house, so many lovely bouquets of white flooded the house that the stairway turned into a cloud of petals. There were even a few of his patrons who were able to play some of his music on the street and hold a vigil. 

Sadly, as the flowers began to wilt, so did their sympathies.

People would show up regularly to berate them for letting him die like that in his bed. Others accused both Frisk and Reggie of killing him. Some nasty brats wrote some slander on the main door of his townhouse. Frisk lost count of the times she had to dodge rotten food whenever she had to clean the front door from some cheeky belligerent. After the first few days, she had gotten better at dodging, trying to save not only her dignity but her maid’s uniform from being washed for the hundredth time.

Still, the help was chided for that, too. The help was always blamed for things they cannot control.

Unfortunately, the worst were the ones who broke in. Some of them coming in at night to take a personal belonging of Mr. Fox’s for the thrill of it all. On one faithful night, Reggie had to wrestle one to the ground while Frisk clung onto another until he fell out of the window and broke his ankle. Those two were the only ones who faced any charges. Without haste, the burglaries stopped entirely. Now, everyone nearly forgot at how violent they were afterward. All the cussing, accusations and hostility were lost to the populace, but the maid and butler remembered.

The help always remembered.

“So Frisk, did you find anyone willing to give ya a chance?” Reggie asked, trying to break up the silence.

As if by some dastardly spell, Frisk’s face suddenly morphed from pensive nibbling to taking a furious chomp of her cake. 

“You know what it’s like out there in London? Everybody has a maid. Townhouses like this have a maid or an army of maids if you have something bigger than this. Nearly every single bloody home has a maid if you can afford it! None of our neighbours give me a second glance after all the shit we’ve been through. What’s worse is some of them give me the coldest of looks whenever I ask them for anything. But the interviews . . . give me strength. They look down their noses at you if you don’t have a letter of introduction from your previous employer, which is what I have to deal with every, single, time! And even if they leave an ad in the paper, they would either shoo you away if you’re not up to their standards, they would’ve forgotten about the ad entirely or somebody came in and got the job. I have to look through eight different newspapers a day just to find something that I can do. Each day is wake up, bathe, eat, clean until noon, eat, job search for the rest of the day and then eat before bed. Rinse and repeat! Honestly, I can’t stand some people—”

She held back, Frisk could feel Reggie sink into his seat, regretting ever stepping upon her raw nerve. Inside, her conscious sneered at Frisk with all the self-loathing it can muster.

“S-Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to explode.” 

“No, I understand,” his voice was calm this time, low enough to be a murmur. “But if it’s fine with you . . .” he pushed away his plate. “I can always create a letter of introduction for you.”

Unamused, Frisk propped her chin in her free hand. “Reggie, just say forge. You don’t have to say it like that.”

“It’s not like they’ll know.”

“Reggie, I bet they would know a forgery when they see one. Fox had all types of fans and admirers from every level of society. I bet a good chunk of them would know his handwriting.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong,” Reggie grinned slyly. “He never really liked to pen anything to his fans. He would always use his typewriter upstairs. Moreover, if he ever got a letter from someone too abrasive, he would always give that task to me as something to do. Good Lord, he got so many them that I’ve lost count. What I’m trying to say is, I can match how he writes letters to people in his usual manner that even his most devoted enthusiast cannot tell the difference. If anything, I can persuade my father to let you stay at his place until you’ve found stable employment.”

“I really don’t want to impose on your family,” Frisk answered.

“I don’t think you will be.”

Frisk had to admit, the offer was tempting. At least with a letter, she can ignite a conversation with a future employer. With a roof over her, she can at least find a sliver of comfort in this mire of uncertainty. She never really met Reggie’s family before, but from what she heard from Reggie— they were fine people.

But how long can it last? How long until they find out the letter was forged? How long until Reginald’s father forces her to leave? How long will her money last until then? How long until she becomes destitute? How long until she has to live on the street? Not to mention the thought of having another person stay at another’s home who was not a family member or the hired help would cause a fit of rumours.

Even with the letter, the thought of having it did not settle in her stomach at all.

_You’ll be lying straight to their faces. Have you no dignity?_

"There’s just . . . a lot I have to think about,” she replied, almost defeatedly.

Across from her, Reggie folded his hands together in a pensive manner. Then he spoke, “Do you think is because of your accent?”

“It’s not that I have an accent, it’s just everyone else has one but me.”

He rolled his eyes. “You can’t keep on using that excuse. Maybe they’re turning you down because they think you’re a foreigner.”

“And what’s wrong with that? I can’t help that I sound this way. Hell, they have no idea how long I lived in this country.”

“And how long have you lived here, Frisk?”

“Not as long as you have, but long enough.”

“Can you at least give me a number?”

It took a breath to do the math in her head. “I guess . . . almost sixteen years.”

“And you haven’t picked up any of my country’s accents in sixteen years?”

“Well, nobody else has picked up my accent as their own.”

Reggie stared back at her blankly and heaved a sigh. “Fine, be stubborn.”

It was the truth, for as long as she can account for she always sounded like she was from the opposite side of the pond. Even when growing up, people thought she was from either America or Canada but had learnt how to use English vocabulary and grammar. At times, Frisk tried to manage to attempt to sound English, but it would end up either sounding fake or, hilariously— Australian by some. Undoubtedly, being around such a diverse range of English, Scottish, Welsh and Irish accents made her appreciate their cadence as well as her own. Moreover, whenever Mr. Fox had a guest over from some far-flung area of the world, she would linger around to hear them talk to each other. How she wished she could journey to such areas of the world where his devotees came from. Although she was stuck in this cold and damp prison called England, hearing their stories transported her to worlds she could only dream of. Of countries and cultures she wished she can see with her own eyes. Even if it is just to Mr. Fox’s homestead in America.

In retrospect, Mr. Fox’s American cadence had a similar ring to hers— however she felt her accent had a different pitch to it. Memories of him teaching her some American colloquialisms filled her mind and made her heart glow. For some bizarre reason, it felt right whenever she used his brand of speech mixed with some English jargon. His relatives, with what few he had over here, thought Frisk was brought over here from North America due to the timbre of her voice.

_Maybe that’s why he took a liking to me. I guess he needed a familiar voice to talk to in a far-off land._

“Not stubborn, just tenacious,” she teased. “Have you got the time?”

Reggie dug through his waistcoat pocket and plucked out his clean pocket watch. It took him about a few seconds of pointless squinting for him to finally break and fish out his reading glasses. “It’s roughly about a quarter to one.”

Heaving a sigh, Frisk swung herself up from the armchair. “Well, that’s my cue to leave.”

Before disappearing behind the entryway, Reggie called to her. Once Frisk was in view, he tossed her the last of the ginger drop cakes.

“Don’t forget, Frisk. Smile.”

The kind gesture was able to bring out one of her more genuine smiles. “I’ll smile when I finally land a job.”

~

With one last hairpin to stick in, Frisk took a minute to inspect her hair before changing into something that lacked the smell of wet salt. In Frisk’s opinion, she never agreed with the convention of having long hair. It was too much of a hassle to maintain and the weight of it would drive her mad. Ever since her youth, she kept her hair short— not as short as she had it back as a child, but enough to hang at chin length. 

Granting all of this, she did had a way to create the illusion of extra hair. Pinned at the back of her head was a hair bun, big enough to cover all of her short locks but presentable enough to be worn in almost any occasion. 

A wave of memories began to play in her mind. While working with Mr. Fox, she always had several of his guests ask him about why she had short hair. Never to her directly, that would be rude. Like with all redundant and mundane questions, it got tiresome. There was almost a time when she wanted to walk out on a conversation because a former colleague of Mr. Fox’s had all the mannerisms of a pig. The man in question was dismissed, but the damage was made.

All of her bottled frustrations were about to come through until a gentle hand clapped her shoulder. 

_“Idiots will always make idiots of themselves. But, it’s just as fun to trick them.”_

The lengths Mr. Fox had to go through to get the right colour of hair and to get it custom made for her, was all the more reason to cherish it.

Tucking in a lock of hair, she took a simple hair comb and pinned it back. Next came her striped blouse, a faded periwinkle ribbon, a sun-dried blueberry walking skirt and matching coat. It was enough to convince the other person sitting across from her that she was competent.

With one more look in the bathroom mirror, she drew a long breath. Deep within her mind, she could hear a familiar voice. Something that always made her heart warm.

_“I know you’ll be great, Frisk.”_

On a spiritual high, she hurried down the stairs, grabbed her handbag, hat, gloves and the job advertisements from today’s paper. The rest was for Reggie to use for anything he forgot to wrap up and pack.

Like clockwork, she would head out and do a quick scour for newspapers from newsboys or if she was lucky enough, a full one left behind on a bench. The latter proved a bit dicey since whole pages were missing for whatever purpose. Frisk only took what she wanted and left the rest. Taking a moment, she scanned through the ads for maid services, pulling out a pencil and marking each one.

_Been there, was there yesterday, didn’t hear back from them at all, that one’s new . . . there’s a few north-east of St. Paul’s that I haven’t visited. Okay, there’s five today._

In the beginning, she was able to do ten or even twelve in one afternoon. But Frisk quickly learned after the third day to go for a reasonable number, but not after accumulating enough blisters to rethink her strategy. Reggie also recommended a few areas where the homes needed constant upkeep due to size. At any rate, those were the homes that demanded you have a letter of recommendation. 

Stores were also off her list; having a letter of recommendation was the first step, but the second was having experience in sales. Moreover, you were expected to smile constantly— a requirement Frisk loathed. Often her face remained in a neutral position when doing menial work.

There was a bit of envy she had to those who can naturally pull it off. A forced smile can scare off anyone, but a genuine one can break any sort of tension.

_I wonder how they pull it off . . . must be some sort of magic._

From there, she would either walk or take an omnibus to wherever she needs to go. Often she would go on foot, but with the lack of employment in her area, Frisk had to opt to different areas of London. This would require her to stay in one part of the city without having to pay too much for transport and stay there until the rest of the day. If she could save a few pence, Frisk would walk back home.

Rarely would she be out before the sky began to change into its beautiful dusk colours. However, tonight was one of those nights.

~

Frisk could not predict the terrible fortune she had with all of her interviews. The first one told her at the door that she had forgotten to remove her ad from the paper, with the position already filled. The second was another well-to-do family who had no idea how to conduct an interview since their head maid was in bed with a cold. Afterward, the last three houses she found in the paper rejected her squarely for not having a letter of introduction from her previous employer. After imploring them the truth, they still asked her to leave.

Fortunately, there was one last stop to take, but it was dicey. One of the local papers, which she found abandoned at a café with complimentary tea stains— had a maid’s position in Whitechapel. The problem, it was in Whitechapel and it was about to get dark.

_At least I can make this quick,_ she thought to herself. _Hopefully, it’s not too far from the main road._

With what little direction she got from a few shopkeepers, the house was in one of the more quieter neighbourhoods where the middle class could afford some decent housing. It did not soothe her weary mind that she was a stone’s throw away from being in the wrong neighbourhood in such a place, but neither was squatting at her old employer’s home until the new tenants arrived.

Upon reaching the doorstep, Frisk drew a steady breath and reached for the chord of the doorbell. “Here goes something.”

There was a small pause, then the sound of soft, dull footsteps hurrying to the door. Those same frantic footsteps came to a halt and the door cracked open. Out of the open corner peered a fluffy cream-coloured face with emerald eyes. Gingerly, the door creaked open and a young rabbit monster in a maid’s uniform poked through. 

Frisk blinked at the uncommon sight. Monsters in London were common workers when it comes to places such as factories and construction sites, but it was her first time seeing a monster as a housemaid. As London began to grow, more humans and monsters began to go where there was work to be done. Sure humans and monsters have lived side by side for centuries in the United Kingdom and elsewhere, but like all creatures of society, they were divided by class. There were areas of London which were solely populated by either monsters or humans and they were in the more infamous neighbourhoods. Frisk knew too well to avoid those streets, if you were the wrong race, the chances of you coming back were slim.

The little rabbit monster looked up to her with her wide, apprehensive eyes. From what Frisk could tell, she had to be no less than ten or eleven years old. Albeit, it was hard to determine age by height with some monsters— many of them can tower over humans like giants while others can be smaller than children. Regrettably, many establishments had trouble catering to certain monsters of varying sizes— more so for the taller monsters.

“Can I-I help you?” her voice was quiet, almost fearful. 

Frisk smiled warmly, remembering when she was like that at a young age. She got to the rabbit girl’s eye level and spoke softly. “I heard there was a job opening for a maid’s position here. I guess you beat me to the punch.”

The rabbit girls ears extended to full height until they wilted above her eyes. Those very same eyes began to wander to her toes. “I’m s-so sorry. The master of the house is ill and hadn’t removed the ad from the paper. I u-um, we didn’t mean to cause you to u-um—”

Her hand tenderly clasped the young rabbit’s shoulder, causing her eyes to finally meet Frisk’s. “It’s all right, sweetie. There’s no harm done. I hope your master recovers soon.”

The rabbit’s little pink nose began to wiggle and a smile came forth. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

Frisk instantly felt her face get warm. _I don’t think I’m old enough to be called ‘ma’am’ just yet._ “I’m not married yet, so it’s best to call me Ms. Frisk Terme. To tell you the truth, you look adorable whenever you smile. I guess your employer just needed another warm face to brighten his day.”

Her tawny face began to beam, flashing her cute little buck teeth. “Thank you, Miss Frisk.”

“Biscuit? Can you help me draw some hot water, dear?” A warm voice came from inside.

“I’m coming,” her head whipped back to her visitor. “It was nice meeting you Miss Frisk. I’m Biscuit,” She held out her paw, which Frisk happily shook. 

“I hope we see each other again, Biscuit.”

“Thank you and goodnight.” 

“Goodnight, dear,” once the door squeaked to a close, Frisk turned around with a smile plastered on her face. _Congratulations, sweetheart._

Long shadows began to drape over the buildings, finally casting the heart of the British Empire into darkness. Lamplights flickered on, accompanied by the unwanted attention of curious insects. Lights from distant, decrepit windows pierce through the shadows. Vendors and other businesses began to close, feeling the air grow nippy enough to invite some April rain. They knew all too well what happens here at night.

Nevertheless, it was her cue to leave.

The day itself ended with a moonless night. A thick concoction of factory smoke and rainclouds sank the city into inky darkness. Droplets spilled from above, only to summon more rain to paint the stones.

Hurriedly, Frisk ran underneath an unfurled awning of a street bistro before fetching her umbrella. Only for her face to go red with embarrassment.

_Dammit, I left my brolly back home._

Peering from underneath, she looked at the streetlamp to watch the refracted light off the rain.

_It doesn’t seem too bad for now. As long as I keep a brisk pace, I won’t get drenched._

Frisk looked around the front of the bistro. The chairs were put away in for the night, but there was one pristine newspaper left on one of the tables. Nabbing it, she pulled out the job advertisements, folded it neatly into her pocket with the rest of her articles and used the rest as a makeshift shield against the rain.

Even in the pale, flickering light of the streetlamp, each street looked the same to her. The route she took for her last job made her bob and weave throughout Whitechapel to the point of dizziness and to trace her way back proved fruitless. Carts and wagons filled to the brim with wares creaked by, but no carriages. Frisk would risk losing a few pence to nab a cab back home, yet she heard of people hijacking carriages in the East End.

Frisk’s eyes began to strain at the street signs, none of them look familiar and no one else looked helpful enough to give her directions. In fact, some of them were eying her as she ran through the streets.

To her unspeakable delight, the rain turned nasty— poking at her with such ferocity that it turned her newspaper to mush. Frisk darted into a narrow alleyway, her shoes tearing through the puddles under her. With what little light which illuminated from the windows, she could make out a few figures in the back chatting away, but they lacked anything amicable about them. 

Thankfully, the next alley Frisk ran into was empty. From above, the eaves gave enough shelter from the rain. Her back found a wall and she heaved a sigh. Tossing the pulpy mess away, she leaned back and felt her hands turn to ice and her soles scream in her boots. Her eyes journeyed to the dark crack between the eaves where the rain pelted through. Puddles sloshed beneath her while beside her rain gutters jangled excitedly in a deafening manner.

As soon as she shoved her hands deep into her pockets, Frisk’s ears picked up the sudden murmur of thunder.

“Isn’t that bloody fantastic?” she spat. “Go ahead, piss rain and fart thunder for all I care! It’s not like I need to be dry.”

By then, her temper ran blindingly to her feet and began to stomp off. If anything, her rage made her feel hot enough to turn rain into steam.

Ahead of Frisk, in the pitch of night, a pair of vermillion pinpoint eyes stared back. All at once, her hot blood drained through her toes. Those cat-like eyes, unblinking and unwavering— burned deep with a paralyzing flame. 

At first, Frisk blinked to make sure she was not seeing things. Unfortunately, those rubious eyes held onto her. In the distance, one of those eyes began to fade away and the other began to glow wildly, with some sort of flame or mist engulfing the remaining eye. 

Something invisible gripped her ribcage and held her into place, planting her feet into the rain-soaked ground. It happened so instantly her body nearly shuddered from shock. Frisk needed to, no— wanted to break away, but she was petrified in place. 

To her horror, Frisk noticed the blazing eye was starting to get closer.

_Please move, Frisk._

The eye slowly began to pick up speed.

_You gotta move!_

Glowing with the fury of a demon—

_Move, for God’s sake!_

Lightning cleft the darkness into a paper-white light, blinding her for a fraction of a second before her ears rang from the detonation of thunder. Frisk’s heart stuttered in her breast before she clung to the wall, yelping from shock. Eyes wide, she only saw the derelict alley she was in, nothing more. Whatever possessed her was gone. 

“Thank God!” she gasped, her heart thrashing against her ribs. 

Taking a few more breaths, Frisk got enough composure to steady her breaths to a normal tempo. Catching another glimpse down the pathway, her feet began to move. 

_Better not bump into whatever that was—_

“Wot’s all dis, luv?”

Three haggard-looking men came up from behind her, already reeking of whiskey and smoke. Frisk choked on a gasp, she did not hear a thing from them with all this rain and thunder. If anything, they must be the men she saw down the other pathway. And yet she took the risk of going to Whitechapel at night.

_Why couldn’t I wait until tomorrow?_

The one closest to her leaned down to her eye level, his cocky grin slicing through his unshaven cheeks. “Yuh mus’ be barmy to be out ‘ere. ’Tis colder than a witch’s teat in this piss, ain’t it lads?”

The youngest one snickered behind him letting loose a low whistle, his gob already missing a fistful of teeth. “Ain’t she a princess, rompin’ ‘round ‘ere with dem baps.”

The largest of the three, who was leaning on the wall next to her chimed in, but not before boxing the younger lad’s ears. “Shaddap, ya tit. Ya lost, beautiful?”

Frisk already felt her nerves shudder and seize in her back. Everything was screaming in her to run, but she knew if she ran off or put up a fight, she would only invite more of their unwanted attention.

She managed her best (albeit sheepish) smile to them, praying in her mind that it was enough.

“Don’t mind me. I-I’m just taking a breather under here. Horrible weather and all.”

A roll of thunder clapped overhead, illuminating just a bit of them to see their smiles get cockier and their eyes wandering up and down her figure.

“If yer lost, we can take yuh to our flat,” the stubbly one replied. “It’s not much but me boys and I will treat yuh proper. Get yuh outta dis pissin’ rain,” he leaned into her ear. “Charlie, Jim and I migh’ even ‘elp yeh get outta dem wet clothes.”

Her eyes went frightfully wide. Frisk took a full step back, his breath on her ear could make her toes curl. 

“I’m very sorry, mister . . .”

“Neill, call me Neill luv.”

“Well, Neill, I’m sorry but I’ll have to decline your offer. I really, really, should be getting back—”

“We can escort ya back home, beautiful,” the large one interjected.

“Yer right, Charlie,” Neill added. “It’s only the righ’ thing to do.”

Frisk felt her heart rattle against her ribs, imploring her to act. She looked over the dimly lit alley, there were several branching paths near her. The two taller men looked like they were slower than her and the smallest one looked like he had not eaten in weeks. Her hand felt one of the newspaper articles in her pocket and she felt something spark in her mind.

Frisk gave them a coy smile, her hands held behind her back. “That’s awfully generous of you three to accompany me home.” One of her hands reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out the papers she collected for today, making sure she kept her hand hidden behind her clothes the whole time. “I really should be counting my blessings.”

Jim gave her another gap-filled beam. “Aw, princess, yer makin’ me all chuffed. Birds loik you are rarer than ‘en’s teeth.”

“Tch, a hen’ll always ‘ave more teeth than you,” Charlie spat out mockingly.

“Naff off!”

She dropped her papers on the ground as they continued to squabble.

_Yes, please keep it up. Don’t mind me._

“Shut yer fuckin’ gobs, yuh gits!” Neill hollered, silencing them both. “Scuse me mates, luv.”

“It’s fine,” Frisk beamed. “Let me just lace up my boots, I think one of them came undone.”

“Not at all, luv.”

Her back turned, she leaned down to lace her boots. The papers she dropped were already drenched from the rain. Frisk took a handful of them off the ground, making sure to keep herself hidden. All those articles and pencil marks she left on them bled into an unreadable mess.

_There’s always tomorrow’s news._

The eyes she felt on her back started to feel prickly. “Oi, luv. Yuh keepin’ us waitin’ or wot?”

Slowly, Frisk stood up with her back against them. “Why don’t you all sod off . . .”

“Wot was dat?”

“I said . . . Sod! Off!” 

Swiftly, she flung the soaked newspapers into their faces and darted into the nearest alley. With her head start, Frisk could already hear them dashing toward her, their shrill curses echoing from behind. Slaps of thunder boomed from overhead, accompanied by gushing rain. The cacophony was deafening, but it disguised her frantic clacking heels as she sprinted between passages. 

All of her power was willed into her legs which were on the verge of buckling. Each path she took was different, zig-zagging between separate alleyways in hopes of confusing her pursuers. Frisk screamed for help, but everyone was shut in from the storm, locked away behind rattling windowsills.

_Just keep running, girl! Just don’t—_

Something flew at Frisk from her flank and sent her flying against a wall. Stone and brick slapped her back, knocking over some glass hiding in the shadows. Wailing in pain her eyes ripped open, only to find Jim gripping her flailing hands with a near-toothless glower.

“Hold still, ya bitch!” he barked, struggling to pin her hands against the wall. 

“Piss off!”

“I’ll piss off once I get a taste of ‘em—”

A hand of hers squirmed free, but Jim caught hold of her leg. Groping the ground, a broken bottle found her hand and she swung it at him. A splash of crimson leapt from his lip, along with a sharp howl. Both of his hands clutched his bloodied mouth and Frisk stumbled back onto her feet.

“Serves you right, prick—”

Her arm pulled over her body, almost dislodging her shoulder. The biggest of the three hoisted her arms above her, with her feet barely scraping the ground. 

“Ain’t you fast,” Charlie huffed.

“Get off!” she screeched.

“You . . . fuckin’ bitch!” 

A spark of lighting illuminated the alley. In that brief instance, Frisk saw the damage she left on Jim. His left cheek was split in two, gleefully presenting the blood-soaked insides of his mouth. The thick scent of copper made her nose sting.

Charlie bellowed at the sight. “Yer lookin’ prettier by th’ day, Jimmy!”

Growling, she caught the glint of a knife in one of his hands. “Sod you! I’ll cut yer bloody nose off fer that!”

Neill finally caught up to them and wrestled Jim aside. “Stop yer whinging.”

The two fought for a bit until Neill pulled away from Jim with his knife. “Put her arms behind her back,” he barked, twirling the knife between his fingers.

With one quick motion, Frisk felt her shoulders pop violently back into place. Panic ripped through her, making desperate motions to struggle free. All that kicking, writhing and screaming were muted by the thunder overhead.

Furious, Jim passed by Neill and yanked at her bun. His free hand went over her mouth. “Just fuckin’ wait ’til I have my way with you, princess!” Jim’s blood, now pouring from his mouth, splattered over Frisk’s skin with each word he spoke.

The tip of Neill’s blade poked frigidly into the soft spot under her jaw, making her gaze reach his. Frisk immediately stiffened, not wanting the knife to dig deeper into her. “Do yuh know wot we do to clever bitches like you?”

Every limb and joint froze on her except for Frisk’s eyes, watching his fanged snarl melt into a sneer.

The knife cautiously fell from her chin, down her neck and stopped at the hem of her coat. He skillfully lifted up one of the buttons with his blade and it gently fell off without the slightest touch. 

Then his blade found another.

“Now, be a good lil’ doll for ol’ Neill and we won’t ‘ave to make this messy.”

Lightning flashed again above her, but she dared not blink. Under the crackling light, she saw a bone-white face look down from behind Neill, digging his fleshless digits into Neill’s shoulder.

Neill stopped and despite his near-paralyzing fear, he turned his head. A pure white skull stared back at him, flashing a row of wolfish teeth. Two pinprick lights shone in the skeleton’s empty sockets, illuminating his face. A single fracture from his lipless mouth cut through his left socket. Within his boney maw, a single gold tooth began to flash at him with unparalleled bloodlust.

As the skull leaned in closer, the thug’s face grew paler. The knife which Neill held so deftly in his hands, fell from his grasp.

“Havin’ a great time without me?”

The skeleton’s free hand rose up, slamming Neill with the back of his fist with such force that he was sent flying head-first into a brick wall. His limp body floundered to the ground, already reeking of blood.

“Neill!” Jim choked.

The monster leapt back. A plume of red erupted from the skeleton’s socket, waving his hand over to Jim as if to summon him. Instantly, Jim flew through the air towards the monster, pulled by some invisible force and taking a handful of Frisk’s bun with him. The skeleton’s hand guided the screaming youth in midair, raising him above his head before hurling him down on the stone path. Splintered spires of shattered ribs burst through Jim’s chest, his last screech a mere whimper among the pounding rain and lightning.

“That’s enough, monster!” Charlie roared, catching his attention.

The skeleton stared back at the thug at full height. His massive figure easily dwarfed both Frisk and Charlie. With what little light came through the eaves, Frisk could see that he was dressed nearly head-to-toe in ebony, cleverly hiding his powerful frame in shadow except for a few splashes of red from his waistcoat, hat and tie. A thick gold chain with pristine circular links jangled playfully from his cape’s collar in lieu of a clasp.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the monster smiled mockingly. “I only wanted to have a little fun of my own.”

“Don’t come any further or I’ll break 'er arms off!” he retorted. Frisk was tugged back closer to him, breaking her out of her state of inaudible shock.

The skeleton shrugged with a smug grin. “All right, then. I’ll stop. Still, ain’t it a bit cowardly of you to use a woman as a shield?”

“Shaddap! Your lot are th’ reasons why we humans can’t get decent jobs in this piss hole of a city! Th’ only thing monsters are good at is lickin’ people’s arses!”

Momentarily, Frisk’s mind conjured images of Biscuit when she answered her master’s door. She knew too well why children went to become servants, because it was the only way for them to stay off the street. It was the only way to feed themselves and their families, to put clothes on their backs and a roof over their heads. It did not matter to her if one was a human or a monster, anyone who lives an honest life deserves to find happiness. And this gorilla had the gall to say all that?

Her hands were already balled up into fists.

“People like you make me sick . . .” she murmured under her breath.

Charlie’s meaty hands tightened around her wrists. “Don’t get smart with me!”

In one clean motion, Frisk slammed the back of her head into Charlie’s nose. Swearing up a storm, he let go of her to grab his face. She dashed away far enough to get out of his reach but heard his string of profanity get cut short.

She turned back, only to find the hulk of a man falling flat on his face with a wound piercing through his back. Behind him was the monster, holding a long bone in the shape of a sabre already drenched in gore.

The skeleton’s left eye returned to its normal state and the bone in his left hand dissolved into a wispy crimson mist.

“Gormless git,” he uttered bitterly.

Her bewildered mind began to race. _Wait, wasn’t he in front of me? How did he get behind Charlie without me noticing?_

Nevertheless, Frisk chose not to stay behind to ask questions. Yet, once she turned her back on him, the skeleton was already before her with his deadly grin. 

A yelp escaped her lips, but the monster’s hearty laugh boomed through the alley. “Well, aren’t you a slippery one? Don’t worry your pretty little head, pet.” The monster bowed down to her eye level and gave her a playful wink. “Ol’ Sans here will keep you company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading through the first chapter. This is my first work on AO3 so I'm quite anxious.
> 
> Now, please note that Mr. Fox in this story IS NOT Toby Fox. Consider Mr. Fox in this work to be a fictional distant ancestor to Toby. However, that won't stop me from making a few references to Toby Fox here and there.
> 
> Anyone who isn't familiar with Victorian life (or hasn't read the manga Emma) might ask what a maid-of-all-work is. While bigger homes have several maids that take care of different tasks, a maid-of-all-work was a singular maid that took care of all the housework. Meanwhile, a butler like Reggie took care of things like mail, banking finances, organizing schedules and acting as a valet but also serving his master and guests as well as helping the staff.
> 
> There's a bit of English lingo sprinkled throughout the chapter that might perplex some readers who are unfamiliar with this form of slang. I'll dedicate a section after each chapter.
> 
> Brolly: Umbrella.
> 
> Barmy: Crazy, mad or insane.
> 
> Baps: Boobs . . . what else?
> 
> Flat: An apartment (American English) or a unit (Australian English).
> 
> Chuffed: Pleased or delighted.
> 
> Rarer than hen's teeth: Or "rarer than 'en's teeth" as Jim puts it, it means exceptionally rare or almost unheard of.
> 
> Naff off: Similar to 'fuck off'.
> 
> Git(s): Idiot(s) (there are tons of different ways to call someone an idiot in England).
> 
> Sod off/you: Another way to say 'fuck off' or 'fuck you'.
> 
> Whinge/Whinging: To persistantly complain in an irritating manner.
> 
> Arse: The similar 'ass' isn't used as frequently, since saying ass is more common in American English.
> 
> Gormless: Lacking sense, foolish, dull.
> 
> Luv, Beautiful, Princess, Pet: These may sound a little bit demeaning to some, but these are all just friendly forms of address. Luv is just a corruption of the word 'love'.


	2. The Skeleton Who Walks at Night

As he hung over her in the frigid downpour, a boney digit came up to his lipless mouth, letting loose a soft hush. “Didn’t mean to scare you, luv. But, I’ll need you to keep quiet while I’m workin’.”

In all her life, Frisk had never seen a monster quite like this one. True, she had seen many different monsters roaming around London, but the ones she saw were more akin to anthropomorphic animals like mammals or fish. Never in her life would she ever guess that there were monsters so strikingly different from the norm.

His body defied all sense of logic with his lack of flesh, blood, nerves and muscles. The fact that he can do anything at all puzzled her more. Nevertheless, she chalked it up to magic. From what little light crept in from between the eaves, she could see the outline of his clothes. He was dressed sharply, almost as if he came back from the theatre— even in the pouring rain his top hat and cape remained immaculate.

All that seemed moot compared to what he did to the three men strewn upon the ground. Frisk kept herself from looking back at their mutilated corpses, but her mind was still reeling over the way he slaughtered them. They were nothing but cheap toys for him to abuse and misuse. It made her already shivering body colder at the thought. He could do the same thing to her, or worse. The image of his shark-like teeth taking a hungry chomp out of her neck or her arms being pulled from their sockets seemed more and more real.

Nevertheless, Frisk did not move nor make a sound, keeping herself under the eaves and out of the rain. If he can do things like manipulating people in midair, create bones from nothing and can teleport wherever he liked, then she would need to be cautious about escaping. Even so, something in her mind wanted to watch him ‘work’ as he put it. 

_What kind of monster goes out like this for work?_

A soft ripple of red mist poured from his hand. He swung his hand over the dead, letting his mist drape over them. A strange light emanated from each of the corpses chests, forming into a shape of a heart. One was cyan, the other tangerine and the last one was magenta. The only thing in common with them was their unusually dark shade.

_Are . . . are those SOULs?_

From what she could remember from school, humans and monsters both have a SOUL, yet both parties could not see them without magic— a trait only monsters had. The subject itself was well-known among the populace, but there have been theories about why human SOULs have different colours as of late. From what Frisk can recall, it had something to do with the speculation of matter and magic found in SOULs.

_Right, a human’s SOUL persists after death while a monster’s . . ._

The SOULs shot up from their former bodies, flying through the air between the two of them with the fury of hornets. Frisk nearly slapped one that dared to fly too close to her face. The monster smirked in an amused manner, almost as if it was funny. He held out his boney hand and snapped his fingers sharply. A small puff of red fizzled from his fingertips. Instantly, the unruly SOULs turned still and fell, nearly hovering above the ground.

“Flighty little shits, aren’t they?” the skeleton chuckled. He reached into his cape and retrieved three small brass cages, similar to a bird’s cage. All three doors snapped open and with his free hand, he curled his index finger at the SOULs. One by one the SOULs shot up from the ground and were locked into their little cages. 

“That’ll keep you,” he murmured while putting the rattling cages back into his cloak.

It was odd but, from what Frisk observed, the cloak seemed to hold almost anything without bulging. There were tailors and shops around London that boasted about having ‘magically embedded clothes’ but they were insanely pricey. There were tales of how monsters can imbue magic into whatever they made like clothes or food, but even such things were risky since magic had to be regulated.

Especially anything that can kill another. 

Again, the skeleton went to retrieve something from his cloak. To her surprise, it was something normal— a pair of immaculate alabaster gloves with elaborate stitching of a blackletter S on top. 

Slipping them on, he gave her a playful wink. “Don’t you just hate cleanin’ up after other people?”

He strode over to Neill’s limp corpse and crouched down until his knees made a sharp pop. A small, tapering bone materialized in his left hand as he began to cut off a piece of fabric from Neill’s clothes. Pocketing the cloth in his cape, he grabbed the corpse’s chin and breathed a small chuckle. Immediately, he tore off the man’s face with a nasty flourish. 

Frisk cried out for a second before her back hit the wall. Her nerves transformed into ice, making her drenched skin and clothes feel warm by contrast. She wanted to cry, scream, yell or anything, but her eyes demanded that she keep watching. Frisk’s eyes darted to the face, but to her astonishment, there was no blood, no scent of gore. Indeed, there was a face in the monster’s hand, but it was hollow and superficial. In his hand was a perfect replica of the body’s face.

The skeleton stood up and turned to her. He gave her another cheeky wink before twisting the death mask in his hand and slipping it away in his cloak. 

“No need to scream your face off, luv.” His cackling reverberated between the walls in a deafening manner, ringing harder in her ears than the thunder from before.

Once he strode over to the next body, her eyes fell on the corpse, but to her awe, the very man who dared to rape her began to fall apart. Quietly, his face began to darken until his whole body disintegrated into a miserable pile of ashes. Every speck of flesh, blood and bone flaked away only to be turned to mush under the battering deluge.

Frisk’s breath began to quicken. _Jesus . . . I can’t let this guy get near me._

She eyed the monster some more, looking for the opportune time to flee. His back was turned to her while he was doing the same procedure to the other bodies. It still poured heavily, albeit lacking in lightning— but the hard downpour was loud enough to mask her heels on the stone.

Bit by bit, she took a gentle step away from the scene whilst hugging the wall. Reaching a corner, Frisk hid behind the wall and watched him conduct the same method to the last corpse. Holding her position, Frisk took a small pause to collect herself and snuck off.

A burst of red erupted in front of her before she had the chance to take her first few steps. For the second time, the skeleton was ahead of her with his terrorizing size.

“Not gonna say goodbye to me before you leave?” he smirked, leaning his arm against the wall. “That’s pretty rude of you to walk off without sayin' thank you, now innit? After all that? Hell, not even a complimentary kiss for your dear saviour?”

Frisk’s cheeks burned angrily at the thought, she did not know why, but it was one of the last things she wanted to do right now. Yet, her heart could not hold still. Silently, she closed her eyes and tried to keep it in check.

_This is what you get for thinking you can get away a second time. Calm down, Frisk. Just make peace with him and maybe he’ll forgive you. Say that what he did startled you, no harm in that._

“I’m still here. Closin’ your eyes won’t make me go away, poppet.”

On queue, her eyes peeled open. The monster still waited for her reply, his once sly grin began to wilt with boredom.

Instantly, she found her voice. “I-I’m sorry, it’s just that you frightened me—”

“Did I now?” The skeleton let loose a low chuckle, his strange set of eyes glowing eerily in his sockets. “Funny, ‘cuz it looked to me like you were tryin’ to run off on me.”

Frisk’s body froze into place, eyes wide, her heart begging not to be the next bloodstain on the ground tonight.

All of a sudden, the skeleton erupted with laughter so hard that his back arched backward. “What’s with that face, luv? I’m just takin’ the piss,” he chortled, trying to control himself from snorting. “You have the best reactions I’ve seen in forever. Priceless!”

Instantly, Frisk’s face went sour, her voice’s tone already matching that same feeling of acrid disgust. “What do you want from me, monster?”

“Oh? Did I forget to introduce myself?” the skeleton interjected. “Where are my manners?” With a sense of pride, he got off from the wall and held his hand out with the other one tipping his hat to her. “Greetings, luv. The name’s Sans, Sans the Skeleton.”

Her eyes stared at Sans’ gloved hand, the dim light of his sockets radiating off an elaborate cufflink that poked out his coat sleeve. Notwithstanding his kind gesture, she tried to keep herself tall, despite her piss wet appearance.

_The nerve of this guy, frightening me half to death and expects me to be all chummy with him as if nothing happened. He probably wants to have his way with me, thinking I owe him for saving my life. I rather drop dead than be with you, prick._

She drew a breath to herself. Something about the cool clean scent of rain she inhaled calmed the mire in her mind. _No, you need to stay calm, girl. I doubt this guy will be easy on you if you just fly off the handle. Still . . ._

Sans cocked his head to the side. “What’s wrong, poppet? Haven’t shaken the hand of a monster before?”

“Far from it . . . If anything, I want to thank you for your help.” 

“Think nothin’ of it. Just doin’ my job and all,” he beamed.

“However,” her hands tightened into fists, only to loosen. “Monster or not, I don’t shake hands with a murderer.”

Something interesting happened with his eyes that Frisk had yet to witness. Those crimson eyes of his faded away into the darkness, taking away what little light illuminated his face. 

Sans’ empty sockets stared down at his hand, his wide smile thawing away. Something akin to a grumble escaped him, but it was nearly inaudible. Cautiously, he pocketed his outstretched hand. “A murderer, eh? Heh, gotta respect that kind of thinkin’ . . .”

With her head held high, Frisk passed by the monster and trudged through the puddling back alleys. The only thing she wanted more was to curl up in her bed and forget everything until tomorrow.

Just then her heart was gripped in a heavy vice, stiffening her legs and arms in place. All her thoughts returned to the moment before Neill’s gang found her and it made Frisk’s nerves go brittle within her.

_This feeling . . . it was—!_

Instantly, her body flew above the stones, swinging her backwards with unseeable force. Frisk’s cries escaped from her mouth until her body came to a full stop. Her eyes peeled open to find Sans ahead of her, his left socket overflowing with blood-red fumes.

His gloved hand wagged his finger at her. “I wasn’t done talkin’ with you, pet.”

Her mouth curled up into a snarl, but before Frisk could yell, Sans’ eye flashed viciously at her. Something shot up from her chest and clamped her mouth shut. Frisk’s muffled screams came out of her nose, but they were just petty squeaks.

Sans’ smile curled hungrily at her. “I told you to keep quiet, didn’t I, luv?”

With another flick of his finger, Sans moved Frisk out of the rain and planted her firmly within his sights. His hulking figure loomed over her, inching close enough to cast her in his shadow. 

Desperately, Frisk tried to move her limbs, but her arms and legs were shackled together by invisible weights. Barely able to move, the only thing that had any freedom was her eyes glaring back at the skeleton. For a moment, Sans did nothing but observe her, his left eye socket overflowing with crimson smog.

Gingerly, Sans’ eyes and hand fell to her waist, inspecting the two buttons that were unceremoniously removed from her coat. “Lookit what they’ve done to you. Pity, it was a nice coat, too.”

A spring of sudden panic erupted in Frisk’s heart, unleashing a torrent of nightmarish imagery in her mind’s eye. Long-suppressed memories resurfaced in Frisk’s mind, dark recollections she thought that were buried too deep within her to come back to life. Yet, this familiar sense of dread, helplessness and despair made her mind churn. It recalled to a time she wished she could eradicate. To an age when she was just as small. To a place that could haunt her worst nightmares. 

To when _he_ was in charge . . .

_**“My, my . . . you’ve ruined your apron again, Frisk. What am I ever going to do with you? You do know I have an image to live up to, right?”**_

_Oh my God, not now,_ she pleaded.

Her eyes followed Sans’ hand, reaching to her face where her drenched locks clung to her skin. “Look at you, all soaked to the bone. Here, lemme fix you up.” He was about to touch her before he pulled back. “Right, we should do somethin’ about your clothes first.”

Sans leaned onto his back heel and clapped his hands together. When his hands parted from each other, Frisk could feel all of the moisture from her clothes and skin leap off her body in a veil of raindrops before falling to the ground. It was strange but, even the biting cold had left her.

“That’s better,” Sans grinned to himself. “Now you don’t look like you just pulled yourself out of the Thames.”

_**“Now, don’t you look the part? Better than those hand-me-downs you used to wear. Fear not, I’ve already disposed of them. You’ll be wearing your maid’s uniform for now on.”**_

She tried her best to blink him out of her memory. _Out of all the times in the world, why did it have to be now?_

A gloved hand lifted a lock from her cheek, but his boney fingers pierced through with the ungodly sensation of a million centipede legs on Frisk’s skin. Again, Sans tucked away more locks from her face, tracing his path across her face. Now and then, she could see something glowing from inside his mouth that resembled a tongue. 

He leaned in closer to her face, the strange smoke that leaked from Sans’ eye socket made Frisk’s nose itch. “Those sods made a fine mess of your hair.”

_**“Did you forget to put up your hair? How unbecoming . . . you should know better not to make me upset, Frisk. Especially when I’m trying to help you.”**_

_Please . . . stop,_ she begged.

Once he was done toying with her hair, Sans cupped his hand to her cheek and gingerly leaned her head upward for him. “There we go, all nice and neat,” he chuckled. “See? No need to get all chordy with me when I’m trying to help you. You should’ve just stayed still for me, like a good little pet.”

_**"Stay still and even if you yell . . . no one will dare help you . . .”**_

_Get . . . off. Get off!_ “Get off!”

Every fibre of her being burst through in one powerful shot. The weight on her heart shattered. The pressure on her lips snapped. The stiffness that petrified her body broke free. Frisk’s hand flew at the monster’s, slapping it with such force that it began to throb instantly. 

The dumbstruck skeleton stared at his slapped hand, the fiery magic which gushed from his eye socket began to dissolve. “How—?”

All of her fear drowned in a sea of rage. The little helpless girl Frisk was long ago, died with that horrid demon of a man. She refused to let that helplessness beat her down again. Never again, even if she was staring death in the face.

 _Never again,_ she swore.

Still reeling, she yanked hard on his cape’s chain and pulled Sans down to her eye level. As their eyes met, she burned her stare deep into his dilating eyes. “Don’t you dare . . . touch me like that ever again! I don’t care if you’re bigger than me, stronger than me or you can do your weird magic tricks on me, but nobody touches me like that! Do you hear me?”

More of her unbridled resolve came through when Frisk shoved him away. She let her undaunted glower linger on him, watching him for any sudden movements. Yet, Sans’ gaze fell to the ground, overcast by the brim of his top hat. However, she could see him shaking in rage, tightening his fists into white clubs and teeth into saw blades, but dare not strike her.

Satisfied, Frisk stomped off a fair distance away from the skeleton before turning back. “And you better not be following me from behind or I’ll—”

On her word, he had left without a sound. The only thing that dared to assault her ears was the pelting rain. Nevertheless, it made her deathly still.

_Did he vanish? Wait, he’s probably doing his weird disappear and reappear act again. But, maybe he did go away. He didn’t fight me back when I yelled at him._

Frisk looked ahead of her and then back again. Not a single skeletal face in her sights.

She heaved a sigh and headed off. _Thank God . . . I had about enough of peoples’ unwanted touches for one night._

Without another thought, she turned a corner, unbeknownst to her that it was the same corner she hid from the monster earlier. It was not until she took a corner to find him there, leaning a hand against the wall.

“Boo!”

Frisk's eyes nearly popped out of her skull, but her legs did slip on the drenched stones, landing flat on her bottom.

Sans let loose another unhinged chortle. “You should’ve seen your face, poppet! Almost had me in tears.”

A growl escaped her. “Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop popping up like that!”

“You told me not to follow you from behind, poppet. So I did. Didn’t say anythin’ about followin’ you from in front.”

If she had been any hotter then she was now, she would make all of her clothes burst into flames. “Piss off, already!”

“Ah, no need to get all arsey with me. With a mug like mine, you do get your jollies out of scaring people.” Sans leaned down and held out his hand to her. “Need some help, luv?”

Ever defiant, Frisk slapped his hand away and stood up on her own. “I can get up by myself, thank you.”

His broad smile slowly dissolved into a frown. “Before you dismiss me further,” he began, pointing a gloved hand to the rear of his head. “You should check on your hair. Make sure you’re not missin’ a nice clump of it.”

“My hair?” Instinctively, her hand reached for the back of her head. The moment her hand felt her hair, Frisk’s heart fell into her stomach. 

Frantically, she ran by the monster and began to grope the area where Jim fell. Each time Frisk slapped the paved ground, she only felt the pooling rainwater beneath her.

_Where is it? Where is it? Come on, you got to be here somewhere!_

Something smooth and soft finally came in contact with her hand. Instantly, Frisk plucked it up and examined it, only to feel her SOUL twist in her ribs. Her faux bun began to untangle and dissolve into little strands, slipping between her fingers in the rain. Much of the part that kept the bun together was already lost. Clinging the hair close to her chest, Frisk clasped her hands around it in a dire effort to keep it from falling apart.

She could already feel the sting of her budding tears in the fresh rain. 

“Is that . . . fake hair?”

Frisk jolted from her spot, the skeleton hovering over her. Clenching it tightly, she stared back at Sans who had a quizzical look to his boney face.

“It used to be . . .” she replied bitterly.

Sans swung back, letting loose a relieved sigh. “Well, ain’t that a relief! I thought I ripped a chunk out of your head.” Soon an uneasy chuckle escaped his lipless mouth. “Good thing it wasn’t your real hair. I don’t think you’d pull off a bald look like me.”

“You . . . prick . . .”

“Wot?”

Her head swung back at him, teeth clenched. “You just had to yank him off me while Jim had this in his hand, didn’t you?”

“Wot are you gettin’ all bothered about? It’s just a clump of hair.” Sans gave a dismissive click of his tongue. “I saved you from gettin’ raped and all you care about is some dumb ball of fake hair?”

“It wasn’t just some ball of hair, you thick-headed fuck!”

Sans’ eyes flared at her. “What the hell did you say?”

“You heard me!” she grabbed his gold chain again, yanking him down with all of her unbridled ire. “You have no idea how much this meant to me! My boss gave this to me so many years ago. It’s all I have of him in my name, my last memento of him and now it’s useless. Now it’s gone, just like him! He’s gone and dead and never coming back!”

Sans’ eye sockets blinked wide with horror. “Your old guv is dead?”

Eyes burning and blurring, Frisk shoved him back, more so out of shock than anger. Each lava-hot tear carved through her cheeks. At once her emotions caught her into a fit of uncontrolled sobbing.

“W-What does it matter to you?” Frisk asked, between her choked words and tears.

The skeleton was deathly quiet, even the harsh glow of his ruby eyes and the sneer of his grin lacked all of his usual snark. Before long, Sans’ hand reached into his coat pocket and held out a lace handkerchief to her.

“Here, you can use this,” he uttered to her softly. 

Still in a hot boil, Frisk stared down at the kerchief. She wiped her nose on her glove, to the monster’s dismay.

“At least use this instead of your glove.”

“I’m not interested.”

An embarrassed blush tinted his cheekbones, unable to look at her directly. “Look, I don’t like seein’ girls or women cry. Just take it, will ya?”

“I said—” Her fist tightened around the faux hair, but then she had a spark go off inside her head. Without hesitation, she plucked the kerchief from Sans, placed the hair inside it and folded it into her skirt pocket.

“You _do_ know that’s for your eyes, right?” Sans said.

“I have my own.” She tore out a small kerchief to wipe her eyes.

Sans paused for a bit, staring at the ground and folding his hands in his pockets. He waited until Frisk was done cleaning herself up. “Listen . . . I’m sorry about your gift from your gaffer. Bet he thought of you as a pure gem.”

“You have no idea.”

“Yeah . . . and don’t know how I can make it up to you.”

“There’s little you can do now.”

Suddenly, Sans’ smile returned to his wide mouth. “Or maybe there is . . .”

Frisk stared quizzically at the skeleton before turning away. “I doubt it.”

In a breath, Sans teleported before her, leaning an arm against the wall. “Hear me out, princess.”

“Didn’t I tell you to stop that?”

“All right, luv. I’ll stop it for now, but at least give an ear to my proposal.”

“Fine, but be quick.”

His smile widened. “Well, since you’re in-between jobs and all . . . How about you work for me?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead as your maid.”

“Don’t belittle yourself, pet. My brothers and I have enough maids at home. What I’m sayin’ is I would like you to be my assistant.”

“What? Why?”

“You see poppet, my brothers and I are what you may call an elite faction of law keepers. While you have your ordinary coppers roamin’ about, doin’ what they do best, they can only do so much. Then you have us, those who would dare go into the underground and eliminate those who prey on the weak in the dark.”

Sans reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out three scraps of cloth with a strange red symbol on them. From what Frisk could make out, it was a serpent, coiling into the shape of an F.

“You know those fine blokes you ran into? They were part of an infamous syndicate called The Forsaken. They like to roam through Whitechapel's rookeries, capturin’ and rapin’ women like yourself. Eventually, the women they take are packed into their brothels and are beaten into submission. Women in these parts are too afraid to go out at night with them hangin’ around each corner. It’s why they don’t come out, even when they hear someone get abducted by them. Similar case for the men as well. They tend to mug and beat up anyone they fancy or extort tenants for money. Most of them find it easier to join their little band of thieves than fightin’ them off. Scared everyone right shitless with their business to the point where folks just go in once night falls.”

Frisk paused on his words. With all of the commotion that happened earlier, she did find it odd how no one came out of their houses and ran to her aid. Well, no one except Sans. Any doubt she had fled from Frisk’s mind, only to be replaced with unimaginable dread.

_My God, I know Whitechapel was seedy, but . . ._

_**“You should know better, Frisk. Everyone has a use and an expiry date. No matter who you are, you can always be replaced by someone new once you are no longer useful.”**_

Frisk silenced the voice inside her head for now.

“However, you did me quite a service,” Sans continued. “You were able to lure some of The Forsaken away and even rough them up a bit. Colour me impressed with how you head-butted that shite-hawk back there.”

Frisk wanted to rub the back of her head where it was sore, but she kept her stern fiery gaze on the monster instead.

“And why do you want me specifically as your assistant?” she asked.

His grin stretched slyly across his skull, despite what little light illuminated his face, Frisk could catch a glimpse of Sans’ boney mug grow wide and smug at her question. “Well, plenty of reasons. Still, there are certain things humans can do that we monsters cannot. And I haven’t met a human who can break away from my magic. I bet you don’t know how much Determination you have within you.”

Frisk blinked at the thought, she never really thought about how much Determination laid within her. Albeit, it was not something that she thought of regularly. Yet if she could break through Sans’ magic, then there must be a healthy sum of it lying within her. There have been countless stories about humans conquering numerous challenges due to their Determination as far as anyone can remember. Yet it was humans who had it in spades. It took millennia for monsters to withstand such raw power without them melting away.

“So, whaddya think, poppet?” Sans inquired. “Want to put your Determination to good use?”

Frisk’s brow furrowed into a scowl, trying her best to hide her drowsy state under her anger. “Not interested.”

There was no anger in his face, no desire to protest or beg for her to reconsider. Sans merely cocked his head to the side and leaned a little more onto the brick wall. “I’m probably askin’ too much from you at this hour. How about you get some rest and think it over.”

Already fed up with him, Frisk stomped away from Sans, with her arms folded together. “That’s probably the smartest thing you said to me tonight!”

“And where are you goin’, princess?”

“Where do you think, bonehead? I’m getting a ride home!”

“Please, pet,” Sans quickly but gently pulled Frisk back with his magic so that she faced him instead. Taking her hand into his like he was about to ask her for a dance, he leaned in closer to her and beamed. “Allow me.”

His free hand came up and as Sans snapped his fingers, Frisk was suddenly engulfed in a haze of crimson.

~

It lasted for only as second, but as soon as Frisk came to her senses, her lungs were already screeching for air. She coughed out whatever strange red magic he used on them, but now she could tell from how it stole her breath that it was thicker than any smoke.

“Not a big smoker, eh?” Sans chortled.

Once her fit of coughing was done, Frisk was about to give him an earful before she took sight of what was around her. Foggy lights from old gas lamps lit up the streets, assorted carriages creaking along the paved roads and rows of shops closed for the evening. Even the harsh rain melted into a soft drizzle, dappling everything in minuscule droplets.

Frisk's eyes widened. “This is . . . King’s Road? Wait, we’re in Chelsea?”

“Impressed, are you?” Sans smiled smugly, amused by her reaction. “I can do farther than that if you wish. I can teleport as far as the Shetland Islands if you like, but I doubt you’ll find anythin’ other than fish and sheep up there.”

Frisk shook herself out of her trance and eyed the streets. Even during this ungodly hour, there were several carriages still creaking along the roads- a blessing in disguise. The last thing she wanted was for Sans to teleport her home and know where she lived.

“Well, at least its somewhere safe—” Frisk was about to hail a coachman until Sans whistled so hard that it not only startled her but the horses pulling a nearby Brougham carriage that was about to pass them by. Sans gave her a lazy but playful wink, but Frisk’s eyes still burned holes into his skull.

As soon as the cabbie settled his horses, he turned his attention to Sans, who had his back facing him. The driver, who was a fish monster, flared his red gills at him. “Oi, guv! What’re you doing scaring—”

Turning to the driver with his trademark smile, the cabbie’s scaly face ran cold at the sight of Sans.

_I guess he likes to scare anyone, even his kind,_ Frisk thought to herself. 

“You busy?” Sans inquired, enjoying the fear he instilled in the lad.

“Y-You need a ride, guv?” the cabbie stuttered.

“I’m fine, but the young lady here needs to get home.” Rifling through his pocket, the skeleton pulled out a fistful of change and handed it to the fish monster. “Make sure she gets home quickly.”

“Sure thing, guv,” the fish monster replied, grinning from gill to gill.

With a pleased grin on his face, Sans strode over to the carriage door and held it open to Frisk. Despite putting on airs to make himself seem more gentile, Frisk scoffed at his antics, gathered up her skirt in one hand and headed into the cabin.

“Need help getting in?”

“This doesn’t make up for what you did earlier.” 

“True, but it’s a start, innit?”

Frisk sat in her seat, just about ready to slam the door on him. 

Sans smiled to himself, the glow from his eyes lingering on her before he began to close the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Frisk.”

Her heart sank in her chest faster than cold lead in water. Hastily, Frisk retraced their conversation as fast as she could, but never once did she give Sans her name. The same frigid feeling swept over Frisk as she turned to the door to stop him. All she saw was a dark street, gently coated in soft rain and flickering lamplight.

Frisk's heart nearly leapt from her chest when the cabbie knocked on the glazed window at the front of the carriage.

“Sorry to scare you, miss,” the glass was thin enough for them to hear each other. “But, where did that boney-looking bloke go?”

Frisk shook her head, feeling her eyelids becoming heavier. “Never mind him. Please, take me to Brunswick Square.”

“All right, miss,” the fish monster snapped the reigns and gently led the way.

The only sliver of grace granted to Frisk was the slow, methodical swaying of the carriage, gently lulling her to sleep.

~

Above the welcoming glow of a warm home, roofs of townhouses were pressed together into a haphazard mess and chimneys chugged out billowing columns of smoke into the pitch-soaked night. Between these chimneys, a fleshless face opened a gold cigar case, lit one of them up and took a long drag. The smoke that hissed out of his clenched teeth turned blood red before turning blacker than sin, finally mingling into the moonless night.

After playing with his second puff of cigar smoke, Sans glanced down over the eaves, watching the carriage of his princess creep along the paved streets.

_Tell me, pet . . . where have you been hidin' all this time? Fulham? Tottenham? Clerkenwell?_

As the carriage was about to take a corner, Sans teleported himself to the next rooftop, never letting it leave his sight. Another casual puff escaped his pleased smile as he leisurely swaggered along.

_Ah, but don’t mind me, luv. I’ll make sure you get home safely._

Of all the times he had been in London, more times than he can recall, more so for business than pleasure— Sans had never been this lucky. London was bordering on nearly six million inhabitants, but Sans had a feeling that Frisk was somewhere in this labyrinth of brick and metal. London itself was too powerful to ignore. And yet, he never thought he would find her in the depths of the slums, yelling in frustration at a cruel sky.

Once she was in his sights, he had to make sure. Mooring her in place, Sans read the name engraved on her SOUL and felt something he had rarely felt. His SOUL began to thump against his ribcage. Every ounce of sense left him, only to be replaced by pure want.

She was there, right there in his sights and ready to be his.

Sans would have taken her right then and there had it not been for the streak of lightning that broke his concentration. Peeved at his ineptitude, Sans nevertheless had to be thankful. Had he gone through with it, Frisk will undoubtedly never forgive him and his chance to have her would have been for naught. Such an outcome he would never allow.

But when she caught the eyes of those Forsaken goons, something festered in Sans’ SOUL . . . something sinful. The way they hovered over her, how their eyes lingered on her soaked body, how they wanted her— it was enough to make his marrow boil. And when they threatened her, clinging to her fragile body, all of Sans’ jealousy burned into wrath.

No one was allowed to touch her . . . no one but him and him alone. No wonder it felt so good when he killed them, like crushing a cockroach before it scurried away. Despite the late hours and uneven sleep schedule, Sans did enjoy some aspects of his job. Even watching his darling Frisk outwit and fight back against the Forsaken was a treat. Sans loved watching that vermillion fire which burned in her SOUL.

And yet that fire of hers—

_**“Monster or not, I don’t shake hands with a murderer.”**_

With those very words, the steady rhythm within his ribs was stolen. How could one person fill his SOUL to bursting, yet empty it just as swiftly?

It could only be her . . .

_Callin’ me a murderer after I saved your life? You have quite the sharp tongue, pet._

Much as he wanted to talk back, Sans knew if he did, it would be in bad faith. After all, no one would be in a welcoming mood after almost getting raped in a back alley.

Sadly, Frisk had another thing coming if she thought she could walk out on him so easily. Sans would never harm a hair on his princess, but when it came to SOUL magic . . . well, it was not like he was physically touching her in a sense. The push and pull of her SOUL against his magic became intoxicating. Even when Frisk broke free, it was akin to a firecracker exploding in his chest. He wanted to do it again, over and over again until his bones went numb with the sheer force of her Determination burning against him. Then again, there was a certain part of him that he would love to go numb with—

_**“He’s gone and dead and never coming back!”**_

Sans froze mid-stride, nearly losing track of Frisk’s carriage. The memory of her tears tore into his bones. His fingers felt his gold chain where his princess tugged at him, which had lost her scent and heat in the night.

_Dammit, Sans! Why did you have to make her cry, ya thick tosser?_ Sans chomped on his cigar before releasing a slow and ponderous hiss of smoke. _Frisk . . . how long were you holdin' back your tears?_

He promptly returned to tailing her carriage, but his thoughts still lingered in the frigid air. Even with his best attempts at consoling her, he felt like it only distanced himself from Frisk. Nevertheless, he needed to mend the tear between them . . . and he knew how.

True, Frisk had gotten angry at him, but in her anger, she showed him her hand. The cards she was dealt with were complete shit, but he knew how to play his to her advantage. All Sans had to do was arrange them in the right succession at the right time. He just needed another peek at her hand without her knowing.

Good thing he was proficient with tailing others.

After losing count of the rooftops he landed upon, Sans saw the carriage slow to a halt after turning into a street near Brunswick Square. Sure enough, Frisk exited the carriage, thanked the coachman and strode off to the nearest house— not without looking side to side for anything suspicious. Sans chuckled to himself, watching Frisk check the front gate for any signs of trouble before locking herself up in her house.

 _So, you were in Bloomsbury all this time,_ he smiled through his cigar smoke. In the back of his mind, he was at least content with her current lodging. If she had been living in the poorer districts of London, Sans would have made sure no one bothered her.

Once every light was off inside the house, Sans teleported to the doorstep and wrote down the number of the house on a slip of paper along with the street name and the area.

 _I wonder if the post office will be open at this time?_ Sans flicked the stub of his cigar into a puddle before being consumed in a puff of red smoke.

~

The postmaster covered his yawn as he dawdled out the door, dreading how late it had become. Sadly, he had to miss his supper after dealing with an ungodly horde of customers in a hurry to send letters and parcels before having to close for tomorrow. Others coming in at the last second demanding service before retiring for the day. However, he and his handful of workers had to abide— despite his customers’ severe lack of time management.

 _Glad work has come and gone,_ he thought drowsily as he donned his hat and locked the door. Sadly, he had to stay behind and make sure everything was clean before enjoying his day off. 

But now, he had nothing to worry about. All that was left to look forward to at home was a hot cup of tea before settling into a warm—

Once he turned around, a wide skeleton suddenly dwarfed him, grinning from jawline to jawline. “Good evenin’, guv.”

The sight of him made the postmaster jump up and brace against the door. If he had been a younger man, the postmaster would have lost all of his hair right there and then. He thought that Death came for him until the skeleton merely laughed at his reaction.

“C-Can I help you?” the postmaster asked, finding his voice.

The skeleton smiled back, leaning down to his eye level. “Mind doin’ a favour for me?”

“W-What do you mean?”

“I just need to take a peek at your phone directory for a second. I have a bit of business to do tomorrow.”

Tiredness was already consuming what little energy he had. Regaining his senses, the postmaster stood tall and adjusted himself accordingly. “I’m dreadfully sorry, sir. We’re closed for now. If you can come back on Monday, I would happily—”

Something soft bounced off his chest. He caught it and looked down to see a healthy sum of money land into his hands. The postmaster’s eyes went wide, he had never seen so much money in one place, it almost looked like it could pay off his expenses for a few months.

“How about now, mate?”

Without hesitation, the postmaster fumbled with his keys and hastily opened the door.

“Please, sir. Do come in!”

Although he held the door for the strange monster, the skeleton had a bit of trouble getting past the doorway with his massive frame. Eventually, his guest got through, however the postmaster thought he had his doorway properly fitted for larger monsters. No sooner did the postmaster light up a lamp on the desk for both of them, casting the booth in a warm glow.

“I’m dreadfully sorry. I turned off the gas for now so—”

“I won’t take long. I just need your phone directory for Bloomsbury,” the skeleton replied.

The postmaster went behind the booth and peeled through the pages of the city's phone directory to the desired list. He slid the directory across the table to the monster who leaned over to read in the lamplight. Taking a minute to watch him, he saw the skeleton take a piece of paper to compare the addresses written on the index.

Curiosity began to itch on his tongue. “Need any help, sir?”

The skeleton scooted the lamp an inch closer for a better look. “Just lookin’ for a particular address.”

“Who are you looking for in particular?”

“Do you know anyone who passed away recently?”

“Oh? Well, I’m not sure, but from what I remember a famous composer passed away recently. I believe his name was Mr. Fox. A shame too, he was rather young. My daughter wouldn’t stop obsessing over his music to the point where she would drag her husband to his concerts. He had quite the following, too.”

The skeleton’s strange eye sockets locked onto the man. “Do you know where he lived?”

Without a second thought, the postmaster skimmed through the index and pointed to a line of text on the page. “Here it is. I can remember how my daughter felt when she heard the news. She was absolutely beside herself. She told me that Mr. Fox died due to something about an artery bursting or something of the like. My daughter even went to his house and—”

He had gone to brush off some rain from his hat, but before he could realize it, the skeleton was gone. All that was left was a flickering lamp and a cut page from his directory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Also, Happy Hallowe'en!
> 
> I want to apologize for the long wait. Life gave me a metric ton of issues to iron out and that took top priority.
> 
> A little bit of background about the telephone and telephone companies in the UK. In 1877, the first telephone came to the UK, a year after Alexander Graham Bell first patented his design (yes, I know there are arguments about who should really get credit for the telephone like Meucci, Reis, Grey etc. but we'll stick with Bell). It didn't take long for people and companies to get a hold of them. During these early years, there were several private companies that operated without restriction, but the big telephone companies were Bell and Edison's. However in December 1880, parliament ruled that since a telephone was a telegraph therefore a telephone conversation was a telegram, the Post Office (who had a monopoly on telegrams) would hold full jurisdiction over telephone companies and making sure that all phone companies register for licenses to operate within the country.
> 
> More info in this article here:  
> https://owlcation.com/humanities/history-of-the-telephone-system-uk
> 
> As for telephone directories, the first one was published in 1880 by The Edison Telephone Company of London. However the first phone directory covering the whole of the UK didn't appear until 1896.
> 
> More info in this article here:  
> https://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/connecting-britain/first-telephone-directory-published/
> 
> Not too much slang like in the last chapter (I hope I didn't offend anyone with some of the thick accents) but below is a list of terms.
> 
> Taking the piss: Making fun of.
> 
> Sod(s): an objectionable or contemptible person/people.
> 
> Chordy: Moody.
> 
> Arsey: Moody (again).
> 
> Jollies: Pleasure or thrills. Can also mean holidays or vacation depending on the usage.
> 
> Guv: A corruption of governor and used as a term of address. It's used most notably for one's employer.
> 
> Gaffer: Boss.
> 
> Rookery: (Not exactly a slang term but it deserves a spot) an English colloquialism for a city slum used in the 18th and 19th centuries.
> 
> Shite-hawk: A contemptible person.
> 
> Tosser: Contemptible or idiotic person.
> 
> Next chapter, more skeletons (i.e Papyrus and Wingdings). Also a big thank you to my beta reader for reading over my chapter!


	3. Chattering Bones

The unyielding rain dulled down to a ghost-quiet mist once Sans got to the Victoria Embankment. The harsh light from the lamps which lined the streets stung through his eye sockets. There was nothing to do about it but blink away the glare and hide under the brim of his hat.

_He just had to pick this spot, Sans grumbled through his teeth._

To be fair, it was not a bad spot to meet up as long as there was a lack of traffic. The fewer eyes on them the better. At night, there would often be people strolling about the lit-up lanes, admiring the strange light from the lamps as they cast their blinding glow upon the inky trees. Nevertheless, people did not stay for long in such miserable weather. Very little stirred on the embankment, the only sign of activity came from the overflow of puffing ships and creaking barges clogging the Thames.

All except one daunting figure who began to anxiously pace back and forth between a pair of lamps on the walkway.

A bone-white face muttered bitterly in the cold, deeply entranced by his own words and movements that he failed to notice anything around him. From head to toe, he was impeccably dressed in black, all except his strange choice of burning red gloves and shoes with splashes of crimson on his top hat, waistcoat and ascot. Bits of gold popped on his cufflinks and buttons, but they were paltry compared to the fine gold cross that he had as a tie pin. Albeit, the top hat seemed rather excessive compared to his willowy figure since he could easily reach up and touch the top of the lamps if he so desired. Yet, his gaunt face lacked any sort of joy, with his long sharp jaw clenching his saw-like teeth into place and his pinprick eyes flashing menacingly in his sockets. Even the claw marks that ripped through his right eye socket looked sharp enough to cut even the kindest of hands.

Sans exhaled a withering sigh, knowing full well what was waiting for him. But he could not care less about his brother’s ill-temper, it will fade away by tomorrow morning. There were more pressing matters to attend to . . . like the needs of a certain human who made his SOUL stir.

Sans sauntered over to his brother, who was too bewitched in his march to notice him. After getting bored of watching his brother’s cape billow behind him for the fifth time since he arrived, he finally chimed in.

“Evenin’, guv,” Sans uttered, managing an exhausted smile.

In a blink, Papyrus’ head spun in the direction of his older brother’s voice, breaking the spell on him. Both of his crimson eyes cut through the dark, especially his right one, sharing the same scars as his socket.

“Brother! You’re an hour late! Where have you been?” Papyrus spat, craning over Sans.

If Sans had been born with eardrums, they would be ringing from his little brother’s shrill voice. Sans head arched back a little, trying to keep a fair distance away from Papyrus’ lack of personal space. Despite being the youngest, Papyrus was blessed with an incredible stature for any monster, dwarfing anyone who came near.

“Belt up, you berk! Or do you want the whole of London to hear you?”

“Sans, language!”

“Wot for, you bleeder? There’s no one here.”

“Even if there weren’t, I expect at least some decency from you.”

“Whatever . . .”

Before Sans had a chance to continue, his younger brother hung over him and began to sniff his clothes. Papyrus’ head recoiled in disgust, snorting out the foul air.

“Smoking at this hour?” he grumbled. “You’ve got some nerve doing that when you’re supposed to be on patrol.”

“Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry, Ms. Papyrus,” Sans replied mockingly. “Should I ask for your permission before I indulge myself?”

“Answer the question, Sans!” he snapped back, his red pupils flaring. “Why were you late?”

Sans rolled his eyes before answering. “Gennin’ on those Forsaken blokes, what else?”

“Bah! As if you have anything useful to report. I, on the other hand, have successfully apprehended one of their many felons.”

Digging through his cloak, Papyrus held up a little copper cage within his sharp, spindly fingers. Within it sat a quivering dark blue SOUL with the death mask sitting on top of the cage’s grill. Sans took a glance at the death mask, it was a prettier face than he expected, at least prettier than the death masks he had.

The lanky skeleton held his prize with pride. “Caught this one before it was going out on his weekly runs. And quite the catch too, his SOUL was as black as his remaining teeth.”

“And where was he lurkin’ about?”

“He was skulking around Petticoat Lane,” Papyrus replied, flicking the cage with one of his sharp digits.

“Anythin’ good on him?”

“Nothing incriminating, not even a list. Figures, I bet most of them can’t spell their names.”

“And that’s all?” Sans smiled coyly.

Papyrus raised a curious brow. “What do you mean _‘that’s all’_?”

“Well, not to brag or nothin’ but . . .” With his trademark smile, Sans casually pulled out the three SOULs he caught.

Instantly, his brother’s face drained of all of his pride. “Wha— How did you get so many?”

“Wot’s the matter, Papy? Hate gettin’ outclassed by your _lazy older brother_?”

Instantly stiffening in his tracks, Papyrus' face lit up redder than a lump of hot coal before he snapped back up and stuffed the cage back in his cloak.

“O-Of course not! I-I’m just . . . surprised. Yes, that’s it! I’m simply surprised.” After a brief pause, he added, “You did well, for a simple scouting mission.”

Sans let loose a low whistle. “An honest to goodness compliment? From you? It must be a cold day in Hell, indeed.”

“Enough!” he bemoaned. “We’re running later than usual and I rather not keep _that man_ waiting.”

“Yeah, yeah chief,” Sans sighed dismissively. “Don’t want to keep the ol’ codger waitin’.” Giving his brother a friendly pat on the back, they disappeared in a cloud of red.

~

It was dreadfully late for anyone to still linger in the office, but that was the price for his position. If anything, New Scotland Yard would be next to lifeless if not for the few bobbies who were on their graveyard shifts or had to deal with other duties. However, for Roderick it was a special case . . . for he had to deal with _them_.

The warm glow of the lamps began to feel dull and numb, gently flickering away as he could feel the gas was starting to dwindle in the wee hours. His office was the last place where one could find a room fully lit, but it did little to improve his weary state. Towers of criminal files cluttered his desk, most of them barely getting a glance from him except his partner, Loox. All of them were on the Forsaken, many of which were still uncalled for with how the gang infiltrated Whitechapel with their presence.

Yet here he was, behind a desk, like all the other senior officers, examining an endless stream of files. Had he been younger, back when he was a wide-eyed youth, he would have spearheaded the task himself. Sadly, this position made him sedimentary and idle— the only thing he had to worry about was getting results for his superiors and making sure The Queen’s Ravens did their job properly.

The thought of them made his weary head even heavier. While bobbies like him were keeping the peace, sacrificing their lives for others— these _ravens_ were nothing more than glorified mercenaries with The Crown’s protection. Even their special equipment was the envy of the precinct, many who have prodded the commissioner about it were flatly rebuffed. Moreover, the commissioner was still refusing to let them have telephones, preferring them to use telegraphs instead. Nevertheless, they did their job well, keeping the horrors of the underworld out of the public eye. With what the Jack the Ripper murders did to the public conscious, it was a welcomed relief. 

And it was around that time, seven years ago, when they first came into contact with Scotland Yard. He could vividly recall the first time he saw them, towering over his superiors with their hollowed-out bodies. Death walked with them and they knew it. True, Roderick had seen plenty of weird and colourful monsters— hell, Loox had to be one of the countless monsters he did not even blink at. Yet, there was something peculiar about the Gasters that pricked him. It was something to do with their presence, the way they cloaked the room with unease just by being there. Even the hands of time stood still whenever they appeared and dared not to move.

Mulling over the files before him, Roderick brushed the underside of his moustache with his finger, feeling the night weigh on his shoulders.

“Where in God’s name are they?” he mumbled to himself.

Loox peered up from his papers, his large monocular eye was already showing signs of tiredness. “Sir?”

“Ah, nothing Loox,” he dug out a pocket watch from his waistcoat and read the time. “Just fed up with all this rubbish.”

“Need anything?”

“Good news, that’s the only thing I need.”

“About the Forsaken?” Loox asked, rubbing the soreness from his eye.

“Well, that too. But some good news, something worth sharing when I get home.”

“Like a cure for baldness?” Loox joked.

In an instant, Roderick’s face gave him a look that could burn holes through his SOUL. His glare nearly made the poor inspector grip his files on impulse.

“U-Um . . . D-Don’t be like that, s-sir! A-After all, I don’t have a hair to call my own.”

Eventually, Rod’s face melted into a weary sigh. Leaning back in his chair, he itched away at the bald spot on his head. “Don’t take it personally, Loox. It’s been a hard couple of weeks for me . . . or rather, for my son.”

“What happened? Was he sacked?”

“No, no, his employer died suddenly. He’s been taking care of his old gaffer’s house at the moment, but hasn’t found a job as of late.”

“What did he do . . . at his previous job, that is?”

“He was a butler.”

“Really? I thought your son would be following in your footsteps, patrolling the streets and keeping the peace.”

“Nah, didn’t meet the height requirement.”

Loox paused briefly, remembering how he barely got by the height requirement due to a technicality with his horns. “Ah, I see . . .”

“Know anyone who needs a new pair of hands?”

Loox’s eye began to wander the floor in thought before it snapped back to his boss. “Come to think of it . . . I heard that Sir Bradford retired his butler recently.”

Nearly leaping from his chair, Rod’s face lit up at the news. “The commissioner?”

Loox sheepishly nodded in agreement.

“That’s brilliant, Loox! Ah, to have my son be the butler of the commissioner. He’ll be set for life. Bugger, I need to—!”

A blast of vermillion smog made the gas lights quiver in their lamps. Both men shot their glances to the dissipating smoke, only to find two of the Gaster brothers standing in their midst. Discreetly, Roderick drew in a sigh— thanking whoever was watching over him that the eldest Gaster brother did not bother to show up. Usually, it would have made their visits longer and he would have none of it tonight.

“Evenin’ gents,” Sans smiled through the lingering smoke. “Burnin’ the midnight oil?”

Roderick’s moustache hid his thin lips, veiling his frown in a bush of flax blonde hair. “Only because you lot are late.”

“Our apologies, Mr. Bruce,” Papyrus began, reaching for his hat. “We were—” Without warning, Papyrus’ hand hit the lamp above him, nearly knocking it out of place. “Blasted lamps!”

“Havin’ fun playin’ with the scenery?” Sans quipped.

“Shut up, Sans! You know I—” In his fit, Papyrus hit the lamp again, this time with the back of his head and nearly dislodging it from its hooks.

While the taller skeleton was busy fussing over the lamp, Sans stifled a chortle at his brother’s antics. New Scotland Yard was made to handle the taller monsters they had recruited, but the youngest of the Gasters was one of those rare exceptions.

“If we’re done with the antics, what did you two find?” Roderick grumbled.

Sans dug through his cape and placed the cages and death masks on Rod’s desk. He also handed them the cut pieces of fabric with the Forsaken’s crest on it. “Found a few of their _procurers_ lurkin’ for new girls for their brothels.”

After fixing the lamp, Papyrus rushed over with his cage, death mask and a piece of fabric with the Forsaken symbol. Unlike the ones Sans had, this one was green to mark the ones who extorted tenants for money. “As I was saying, we were busy apprehending their lackeys for the night. None of them held anything incriminating, unfortunately.”

Roderick reached out for the death mask from Papyrus’ kill and turned it over. It was uncanny how these masks looked so lifelike to him and how effective they were. The mask on the reverse was lead white, except for a block of text on the back. Everything about the man from his name to his crimes was written in raised black ink. Once he got to the list of their victims, he could feel the colour drain from his face. There were plenty of names on them— many of them women and monsters who have been reported missing. Despite it all, it saved them minutes on making criminal reports and profiles. However, those strange gloves, which were called ‘undertaker’s gloves’ by the Gasters— were problematic. 

Most of the constables begged the leader of the Queen’s Ravens to share his inventions to them, but many were put off by their gloves and how they affected the bodies they used them on. Such a device would hamper investigations of crime scenes with how the bodies dissolved into ash, then again most bobbies had trouble with investigating the scenes where monsters were killed. Furthermore, the commissioner thought that if the police were seen doing such acts in public, it would cause a panic. If the eldest Gaster brother had been recruited into the force, he would have made a name for himself with all of his clever inventions. Moreover, his re-designs for handcuffs which nullified a monster’s magical powers were leagues above the cuffs they had nearly a decade ago.

Without another thought, Rod gave the death masks to Loox who was already leafing and scribbling through the files on the desk. If anyone can remember what was scrawled on a file by just looking at it for the briefest of moments, it was him.

“Any news on their location?” Rod prodded.

“Be patient, mate. Art takes time, doesn’t it?” Sans rebuffed.

“There’s little to be patient about when you lot are only apprehending their minions instead of going for the head. Have you found anything about their hideaway? Or where their brothels are?”

Papyrus gave a disapproving snort. “We’ve been mapping our encounters with them. They only seemed to be interested in controlling Whitechapel’s denizens.”

“Not our fault those Forsaken gobshites are all humans. At least we’re makin’ a dent,” Sans scoffed. “Don’t see you lot doin’ nothin’ about it. Unless you want to send your boys to every brothel in Whitechapel and play hide the sausage—!”

“Sans! Don’t be so vulgar!” Papyrus barked.

“Like I give a—!”

“That’s enough!” Roderick thundered, silencing everyone. Drawing in some air, he composed himself before continuing. “Look, we’ve been dealing with these louts for far too long and the commissioner wants them out of the picture.”

Loox handed Rod the files he had prepared for each of the dead. Skimming through the lines of text, he noticed many of them had a long list of petty criminal offences, but the more insidious acts were cleverly hidden behind a lack of evidence. He collected the masks of each offender, grimacing at the two who had mutilated faces one last time— and turned to Loox. 

“Put these with the others.”

Loox nodded and took them to the record room, his eye rested on the floor as he left the office. A while back, he heard Loox had trouble looking at the Gasters in the eye— especially with their lack of normal eyes. In retrospect, hearing such a statement from Loox made sense, being a monster who relies heavily on his eyesight. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, then the only thing Loox saw when he managed to look into the Gasters’ eyes was nothingness.

“Tell your Ravenmaster I want some results by the end of the following week,” Roderick continued. “I want those bastards gone as soon as possible. If you do find something on their felonies or brothels, bring them straight to me. With that, our men can take care of eliminating the brothels and saving the women.”

For a while, the strange flickering in their eyes was gone and they fell silent. Both skeletons exchanged glances before Sans reached out to collect the cages.

“Fine,” he grumbled, pocketing the cages into his cape. “We’ll let him know.”

Once the Gasters’ backs were to him, Roderick chimed in before they had a chance to disappear.

“And next time, when you’re killing these bastards off, leave their faces intact. We need these masks when going through our rogues’ gallery and it doesn’t help when they’re beaten to a bloody pulp by you gormless sods.”

Papyrus merely snapped back at him with a grimace and a growl, which did not phase Rod in the slightest. Before Papyrus could retort, Sans caught his arm with his back still facing the detective.

The shorter of the two skeletons reared his ugly head, his left eye socket fuming with the reddest smoke Rod had ever seen. “Get stuffed.”

Wearing a devious grin, the skeleton and his brother disappeared into their peculiar smog with a snap. Finally, Roderick welcomed the silence, wrapping him in much-needed alleviation. All of that silence went to pot once he saw his desk fall over and shatter across the floor.

Rod nearly leapt out of his seat with a yelp, only to boil over with acrid fury. Between the flying pages, he noticed the front legs of his desk were sliced off. Only the image of Sans’ smile seared in his mind. All that rage burned down to his feet as he began to punt his desk wildly.

“Stupid, goddamn bastards!”

The door flung open, revealing a panicked Loox who was already out of breath from his sprint. “W-What happened, boss?”

Roderick snapped back to his senses, watching the last bit of paper float to the floor. Quietly swearing under his breath, he ran his fingers over his face and through his thinning hair. His now lax shoulders fell forward, his strained eyes watching the flicker of the lamplight tickle the air.

“Nothing, it was nothing Loox. Just . . . help me clean up this mess before someone notices.”

Roderick crouched down to his battered desk, grumbling to himself as he picked away at the pile of scattered documents.

_It’s sods like them that make me want to drown myself in brandy._

~

Sans’ back loosened once he returned home, the stale, fusty stench of old papers, smog and charred butt-ends was now counties behind him. They were all replaced with the warm, rich hues of home, cast in a warm glow from frosted glass lamps. The home welcomes the weary but seldom finds comfort with the bitter.

Sans looked up to his brother, already stomping out of the cloud and strangling his hat. He could even hear Papyrus’ shoulder bones crick and crack from how stiff they have become. 

“The nerve of that bastard, slagging us off . . .” Papyrus grumbled under his clenched teeth. “After all we’ve done for him and London! God, I wish I could rip the skin off his bastarding face—!”

“And what d’you think will happen then?” Sans interjected, fanning away the lingering red mist with his hat. “You honestly think Wings’ll let you get away with that?”

His younger brother went taut with dread, his skull producing a fine clutch of pearly sweat. “W-Well, I—” Papyrus momentarily shook his head and growled under his breath, quickly followed by a string of mumbled curses.

As the red magic settled, they heard the dull scuttling of feet on the carpet, followed by a retinue of young Temmies coming from different corners of the mansion. Eight came, four girls and for boys, as they hurriedly queued up and either bowed or curtseyed in their monochrome uniforms. They all extended their gazes up to them, for they were no more than a meter high.

“Welcome home, masters,” they greeted in unison.

In an attempt to compose himself, Papyrus snapped to attention, momentarily forgetting that he was choking the strength out of his top hat. “Ah, good evening!” His red pupils wandered to his poor hat, making his cheekbones sear red with frustration. “H-Here! Take this to your mother.”

Sans tossed his hat and undertaker’s gloves to the nearest Temmie and gestured to his cape. “And here I thought you couldn’t get under a skeleton’s skin.”

After shoving his hat to the nearest Temmie, Papyrus reared his skull at his brother with the most perplexing mug he could make. “How does that even— bah! Whatever . . . human idioms don’t make sense in the slightest.”

Sans shrugged, discreetly unhooking his gold chain. A ladder of Temmies held his cape for him, each one propped up on each other’s shoulders. Despite their size, they can easily scale one another to make an impressive tower. 

Sans’ pupils lingered on his chain, each link jangling merrily between his fingertips. He used a little of his magic to see if the heat from his girl’s hand was still there. Feeling and reacting to temperature was a luxury only his magic could grant. Despite this, the chain became cold. Thoughts of Frisk’s tearful glare began to swim in his mind until they were drowned out by his brother’s unbearable fuming.

Sans grumbled under his throat, linking the chain’s toggles into the buttonholes in his waistcoat lapels. _Think, Sans. What can I say to get this muppet to shut up?_

A thought lit in the back of his skull. Hiding a grin, Sans dug through his cape and said, “Oi, Paps. Weren’t you expectin’ somethin’ to come in tonight?”

Papyrus stopped in the middle of shedding his outerwear. “Expecting . . . something? Wait, was I?”

As he was retracing his thoughts, the Temmies began to slowly peel away Papyrus’ cape. Then they took his gloves. Followed by his coat. Lastly, they stared at the lanky skeleton, who remained silent. Fearing they might have lost him, a Temmie managed to poke at his leg.

“Uh . . . master?” one of the Temmies prodded.

A fiery glint scorched in his sockets, releasing an unhinged burst of pure epiphany that knocked them all off their feet. “Aha! That’s it! You! There!”

One of the stunned Temmies looked up to him. “S-Sir?”

“Did a package arrive for me today?”

“Y-Yessir.”

“With my new sliding puzzles?”

“Y-Yessir, it came in while you were away—”

Papyrus burst into his iconic laugh. “Excellent! You put it in my room, didn’t you?”

The Temmie finally rose to his feet. “Of course, sir. It’s on your desk.”

No sooner did the skeleton dart for the stairs, gleefully chuckling to himself. Papyrus was on his second step until he stopped and turned to his brother.

“Tell Wings that I’ll be retiring to my room for the night. And make sure he doesn’t summon me either.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sans waved dismissively. “You said you found yours near Petticoat Lane, right? I’ll let him know.”

On his words, his younger brother was already clambering up the staircase to his room, giddier than ever. 

_One last person to answer to for tonight,_ Sans thought.

With a handful of cages slung over his shoulder, Sans sucked in a yawn and hauled himself up the stairs. In his mind, he could use a walk, giving him ample time to clear his head. Sadly, with all of the magic he used up, he could not manage a quick teleport to Wings’ study. There were other matters he wanted to save is strength for. However, there was one problem that dawdled in his skull . . .

_How do I convince Wings? C’mon Sans, you can’t afford to screw this up. Especially with what she’s been through . . ._

His mitts dug into the dark wood railings, already feeling as if his SOUL was caught in a vice of magic. 

_Best to go at it slowly. Just warm him up a little after showin’ him the SOULs you caught. Wait, he might know I want somethin’ with the way I go at it. That’s what you get with a brother with the eyes of a shithouse rat. And there’s the bit with Brucey-boy, boxin’ our ears about the Forsaken. Bloody prick . . ._

Rubbing his weary sockets, he slowed his pace once he reached the second floor. No matter how much he thought about Frisk, he could not get rid of the Superintendent’s voice gnawing at his skull. Bruce’s mandate was too heavy to ignore. That card had to be dealt with despite the repercussions. Despite this, he studied his hand again, rearranged his cards— and slowly, he began to beam.

_Well, well, Brucey. Seems like you’ll be useful to me for once in your miserable life._

The door groaned open to a dark room, the only thing that greeted Sans warmly was the crackle of dying coals. An unkempt hearth was the work of his brother, preferring to mull over his scribbles and charts with his new-fangled electric lights. He could already see the charred remains of crumpled papers his brother threw away. And true to form, Wings was there at the far end of the study, his finger tracing over a map of London with Bob at his side. The far end practically glowed in those nauseating lights, to Sans’ dismay.

Sans took a minute to compose himself, watching the light dim from the coals to put his weary mind at ease. Thankfully they were too preoccupied with the map on the wall, thoroughly pierced and laced with red tacks and thread. At least from what little he can hear from the other end of the study, they seemed to be in good spirits.

Drawing a breath, Sans took his first few thoughtful steps towards them. Gradually, their soft words reached him.

“Honestly, whenever I look over a new map of London, there’s always a new street popping up that I’ve yet to notice. At this point, this city will become so labyrinthian that I’ll be surprised there isn’t a Minotaur wandering about.”

“I saw a cow monster last time I was in London. Does that count?” Bob asked, his white tail wagging behind him.

Wings made an amused smile, stifling a giggle. “I guess it does, for now at least.”

“You’d think that there wouldn’t be enough room to make more roads and houses.”

Wings lifted himself away from his map after scribbling something down. “I see that you have yet to witness the lengths people will go to clear out unwanted space.”

“And . . . that would be?”

“Slum clearing, I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Just demolish the whole thing and put something new up.”

After a brief pause, Bob decided to speak up. “What about the people who used to there?”

“Oh please, Robert. As if the people who clear the slums _care_ about the people living in squalor. They just want one less eyesore to worry about. If I remember correctly, which I do— there was an Irish slum that was cleared after the owners sold the land to the Midland Railway.”

“So they just create more homelessness?”

“Correct.”

“So nothing is truly solved?”

“Exactly!” Wingdings tongue went cold to the sound of footsteps, tearing him away from his map. Once his brother was in his sights, Wings straightened himself up and turned on his heal with a pleased smirk. “Ah, Sans. Has the night been kind to you?”

“Hoi’vening, Sans,” Bob chirped, only to grow quiet at the sudden slip of his native tongue in his speech.

Sans gave them a grin, trying in vain to hide his smug blush. “I guess you could say that.” He planted the cages onto Wings’ mahogany desk. “It’s been a good night.”

Wingdings merrily extended over his desk to get a better look, his red and purple eyes scanning the already quivering SOULs. One of his gaunt, gloved fingers gently flicked at the nearest cage with a sharp twang. A smile creased over his jaw as the SOULs jolted to the sound.

“Splendid! Just as I thought . . . they’re being cautious with how many they’re sending out on their nightly runs.” Wingdings paused momentarily, eying his brother. “And . . . where’s Papyrus?”

“Off to Bedfordshire with his new toy.”

“Better not waste this opportunity . . .” 

Wings slipped his gloved hand into his trouser pocket but made a confused face. Furiously, he patted his velvet smoking jacket as if he were looking for something. To no avail, he sighed and snapped his fingers. In an instant, a glowing purple hand hovered next to him with a hole pierced through the palm. Pausing to take a look, Wings smiled and reached into the hole, retrieving a tin box. Once the hand fizzled out of existence, Wingdings plucked his pipe from his desk and began to fill the bowl with the strange black substance from the tin. 

“Of all the places it could be, I left the tobacco in the bathroom. Robert, if you would do the honours.”

Bob hopped onto the desk and plucked a matchbox from his waistcoat. Being as tiny as he was, this was allowed. Withdrawing a single match, Wingdings struck it over his sharp brow and lit up his pipe. A quirk that would not phase Sans and Bob in the slightest.

In turn, Sans flipped open his cigar-case and pulled out a fresh one. “Oi Bob, mind givin’ me a light?”

Wings let loose a long hiss of smoke, watching it turn from a fiery vermillion hiss to a thick puff of ebony. He crushed the burnt-out matchstick in his hand before making himself comfortable. “Well, Sans? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

As Bob scuttled over to light his cigar, Sans laid his thick palm over Papyrus’ cage. “Papy caught one of their extortionists near Petticoat Lane. As for the rest, that was all me. Bunch of their procurers tryin’ to get away with another catch in the alleys near Brick Lane.”

An intrigued brow raised over his monocled eye socket, the soft violet glow went from its usual hazy softness to a sharp dot inside his crescent moon-shaped slot. “You? Caught these three?” He giggled in his throat. “I could just imagine the face Papyrus made when he found that out.”

“Should’ve been there, Wings,” he replied, taking a few dry puffs before his leisurely inhale. “Just wave your hands around a bit more and you’ve seen him light up like a firecracker.”

His elder brother wheezed out a laugh. “I’m afraid I was too caught up with my thoughts to bother you. After all, you two were doing your rounds. No need for me to follow you when my services are not needed.”

 _And a good thing too,_ Sans thought to himself.

“Nothing of worth on them?” Wingdings continued.

“Nuthin’ worth writin’ home about,” Sans rolled his cigar between his fingers, letting the burnt side even out. “Caught them nearly assaultin’ a poor girl in an alley before I came in and beat seven shades of shit out of them.”

“You don’t say . . .” Wingdings lingered on his words before a sharp screech ripped through everyone's’ ears. 

Sans winced at the sound, if he had ears they would be ringing. After his eyes refocused he saw Wings hovering over the nearest cage piercing it with the sharpest bone he could create, leaving behind an ugly indent. The SOUL inside shuddered nearly a gnat’s whisker away from getting impaled.

An uneasy smirk crossed Sans’ face, he knew too well about his family’s short tempers, but Wings . . . he was the last monster alive he would want to feel his wrath from. An uneasy twitch ran down his tightened spine, but it lasted for a wink. Nevertheless, it was a sight to see him take his rage out on a SOUL who deserved it. After all, he attacked the very SOUL who threatened his beloved Frisk with a knife.

Within seconds, Wingdings’ hidden rage thawed from his face, along with his bone knife. “What’s wrong with me? I can’t be bothered to give him a proper scare.” Heaving a sigh, he settled back into his chair. “I can’t be getting _this_ soft.”

Bob, who nearly leapt off the table at the sudden shock— finally broke the silence. “S-Sir? May I?”

He waved at his butler dismissively. “Take them out of my sight, Robert. You know what to do with them.” Before Bob took the cages, Wings added, “And leave the matches with me. I’ll be retiring soon.”

“Yessir!” 

Sans watched the small monster take the cages away, disposing some of the crumpled pieces of paper into the fire before disappearing behind a Temmie-sized door. He lingered for a bit, leaning on the desk and watching his smoke trailed to the stained stucco ceiling. No unwanted ears, eyes or mouths around, just him, his brother and the gentle Snowdin flakes brushing against the windows.

“So, Sans . . . is there something on your mind? It’s not like you to linger without at least asking for something?”

“Can I at least enjoy a smoke or two without being prodded by you?”

“You know there’s no such thing as that, Sans,” Wingdings smiled, his chin propped up on his free hand.

“Wish there was,” a thick hiss of smoke left his clenched teeth before Sans continued. “It’s Brucey boy, he’s still bitchin’ about the Forsaken.”

“And here I thought you would have something new for me,” Wings murmured indifferently, playing with his smoke rings.

Sans clicked his teeth. “The impatient bastard said he wanted results by the end of the followin’ week. Sayin’ we’re takin’ too long and we need a lead to their lair and where they’re keepin’ their girls. The only thing that man’s good for is whingin’ at us.”

“Of course he’s good at complaining Sans, he has an office job. It hasn’t dawned on their superiors that stuffing a bunch of surly sods in a little box all day is detrimental to their overall health.”

Still puffing away, Wings stood up from his chair and magicked some floating hands to place some tacks where the new encounters took place. Quickly, he jotted down some notes with a red pencil, continuing to mutter to himself. 

“I have a few new areas for you and Papyrus to patrol on your next visit. With how we’ve been chipping away at their forces, I have the impression that the Forsaken will recruit some _unwilling candidates_ to do their dirty work for them. If you see any innocents, take them aside, hopefully, one of them will know where their base is.”

“You’re goin’ blind, Wings. Most people want to do when they see us in the middle of the night is soil themselves and bolt off.”

“Tell them that you report to Scotland Yard and they’ll be taken care of there, that’ll reassure them.”

“O’course, tell the people who’re too scared to report anythin' to the police . . . _to go to the police!_ ” he answered curtly.

A grumble echoed in Wingdings’ throat. “And you have a better idea? Please, do enlighten me.”

A long, drawn-out waft of smoke curled out of his dagger-like teeth. He had his brother right where he wanted him. “I’ve just been thinkin’ about our predicament; how we’re just three lonesome monsters goin' after a gang of humans. Then again, we’ve been like that for a while, just the three of us versus the world.”

Slowly, his brother’s pinpoint eyes began to soften. One of his hands reached within his smoking jacket into his waistcoat pocket and began to caress its contents. Sans knew well what was in that pocket, something that would never leave Wings’ possession as long as he drew breath.

“Yes, I’m . . . well aware,” he replied thoughtfully.

“We’ve been doin’ good, gettin’ rid of smaller gangs, but these bastards are a larger threat. And with how Brucey’s been gnawin’ at us we need more manpower to take ‘em down.”

“Really? Hire more monsters? That’s your brilliant plan?”

“I’m not talkin’ about hirin' another monster.”

Without a single word, Wingdings turned to him raising a curious brow.

“Think about it, with a human in our ranks, we’ll be able to get some leeway into areas we’ve been havin’ trouble with. After all, we’ve been in a bind findin’ some humans with good intel to share. Bet they’d open up to a friendly human than to our sorry mugs, right?”

“Indeed it would, yet one question remains,” he paused, pensively removing his pipe. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“O’course I have, Wings. I’ve met a human durin’ my rounds tonight and let me tell you, she could surely hold her own. Mind you, she was holdin’ off the three I killed tonight, but I came in before they could do anythin’ to her. Needless to say, I was intrigued by her. She would make a great assistant . . . for me at least.”

“A woman?”

“Don’t tell me you’re against givin’ women jobs, Wings?”

“Not in the slightest! Nevertheless, that’s quite an interesting position to grant to a woman you’ve just met, isn’t it?”

“What can I say?” Sans turned around and casually leaned against the desk, effortlessly flicking the charred butt end into the ashtray. “She caught my eye. And let me tell you, she’s quite the lush.”

“So . . . would you describe her as stunning?”

“A dish.”

“Practically radiant?”

“A doll.”

“Positively gorgeous?”

“A princess.”

“Interesting . . . so tell me, Sans,” His brother’s gentle voice brushed against Sans’ earhole with such softness, that all of his strength fell from his bones. “What makes you think that you have the utter gall to propose that to me and get away with it?”

Suddenly, a strong force pushed down on his shoulders, slamming his rear into the desk like a belligerent toddler being forced into a chair. Sans flinched at the sudden pain, but to his horror, a pair of disembodied hands gripped at his shoulders. He dug his hands into the desk, pushing himself forward, but another surge of magic forced his SOUL back, planting him in place.

He could feel the sting of Wings’ magic coursing from his sunken sockets. “Why don’t you take a seat, Sans?”

“W-Wot . . . the hell, Wings?”

“You honestly think that I would let you have some random piece of skirt you’ve found off the streets come in and keep your bed warm?”

Hearing Wings say that about Frisk made Sans’ bones froth with rage. His hands dug into the wood splintering it into bits at the thought. He fought again, his SOUL choking in his ribcage. “She’s . . . not—!”

Another spine-shattering shove pushed Sans back into the desk, finally making him scream. He could not push back anymore, his bones felt like they could buckle in at any second. 

Wings’ long phalanges grabbed Sans’ crown and pulled his skull backward to face him. Both of his sunken sockets burned with crimson and violet fumes, even his lazy eye socket looked like it would open up to full height. 

“Oh Sans, you should know better not to make me upset.” With a growl growing in his throat, Wing’s flicked Sans’ head upright, breaking their shared glance. “And yet you and your brother tend to forget that one, simple rule over and over again.”

“She's not, I swear it! She’s just a maid!”

His palms slammed down on the desk. “And what kind of proof do you have besides your word?”

Sans’ mouth seized up, feeling his cold sweat trace down his stumpy neck.

An unamused rumble left his mouth. “Just as I thought, nothing but lies to hide behind. Not like you can keep your promises in the first place. However, that’s where the garden of my genius bears fruit.”

Swiftly, his nerves began to dissolve in a sea of dread. _N-No, not that,_ he begged. _Anythin' but that!_

“After all,” A narrow finger found Sans’ lower back, delicately stroking the length of his spine. “I know exactly how to make you talk.”

Clawing with panic, Sans stumbled to the ground, finally free from his brother’s vice. His shivering eyes met his brother’s, whose stern gaze hovered over his mangled desk. 

He caught his breath before he could reply. “You got it all wrong, Wings! H-Her SOUL, she’s strong enough to break through my magic!”

Upon his words, Wings’ sneer melted into pure shock. “Wait! You’re telling me a human broke through _your_ magic?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“And why would you use your magic on her?”

“S-She was tryin' to leave before I got a chance to talk to her. I’m tellin’ ya, Wings— she’s overflowin’ with Determination.”

Wingdings rapped his digits against his chin, his eyes glowing wildly with delight. “Change of plans!” He snapped his fingers and two glowing hands hauled Sans off the floor. “We _must_ recruit her. Dammit all, Sans! You should’ve told me sooner.”

Brushing away Wings’ hands, Sans glared at him hiding some colourful words under his breath. “Is that supposed to be your apology for all of that?”

Wingdings stared to the ground briefly before turning to his brother, his eyes softening. Wisps of red and purple magic leaked from his fingertips and all the splinters gently lifted from the ground, restoring the desk to its former self. “Indeed, I’ve . . . gone too far with my actions. I doubt I’ll find an apology from you anytime soon.” With another snap, his chair flew over and Wings sat back. “All right, I’ll help you. But, what do you need me for exactly?”

“Let’s just say she needs a little _convincin’_ before she could come over.” Swimmingly, Sans flicked a folded piece of paper to his brother. Unfolding it, Wings eyed the address circled in the index. “I’m hopin’ your silver tongue would charm her over.”

Wings hummed in his throat. “There’s no need to worry, Sans.” Teasingly, two slippery tongues, both red and purple— poked out of his mouth. “Why have a silver tongue, when you were born with two?”

~

The silence in Sans room welcomed him. Drapes closed, door locked, just him and his mind whittling away the minutes. He struck a match, lighting a candle on his nightstand before being snuffed out. Its tender glow casts over a wooden box which he gingerly opened, not desiring to harm the fading varnish. Inside laid a cardinal red interior of fine, plush velvet— a perfect bed for his gold chain. Each link jingled gaily in the candlelight before it was delicately wrapped away. Sucking in a yawn, he emptied the rest of his pockets, stuffing them into his nightstand drawer.

Tossing his clothes aside, he began to dress into his sleepwear. Sans could still hear the echoes of his conversation with Wingdings playing in his skull, which all the more made his grin grow.

_“What do you think would be an opportune time to call her?”_

_“Hmm . . . ten o’clock? No, eleven, yes, eleven would be better.”_

_“Eleven? I was thinking after lunch, but eleven will suffice.”_

_“You got a better time?”_

_“Let’s see . . . maybe eight o’clock?”_

_“You want to call her while I’m sleepin’? She’s been up late like I have, give the girl some rest!”_

_“Fine, fine. Eleven it is, then.”_

_“And don’t call her ’til I’m here. Savvy?”_

_“Yes, yes! At least this way you won’t be sleeping the whole day away.”_

_“Well, if that’s all, I’ll be on my—”_

_“Before you go . . .”_

_“Ugh, wot is it?”_

_“Since we’re going this far to recruit her, I expect an interview once she arrives. To see that she fits the bill, of course.”_

_“Wait, I—!”_

_“What? You thought that I would hire her without a proper interview? Please, Sans. We have an image to uphold and I’m not the one to hire someone without my inspection.”_

_“And you expect me to just not be there? Are you havin’ a laugh?”_

_“Oh no, you’ll be there. After all, you said you wanted to hire her as your assistant. It wouldn’t look good for any of us if you were absent.”_

_“Heh . . . Lookin’ forward to it.”_

_“And so am I . . . I would be lying if I didn’t say I want to prod her about her strong levels of Determination.”_

_“Prod? If you’re thinkin' of doin’ any of your experiments on her, I’ll—!”_

_“Nonsense! I’d never do that on a lady without her consent. Even if she would, I would not in any shape or form harm her in the slightest.”_

_“Do I have your word?”_

_“I would never harm a lady. If such a thing happens, you are free to restrain me in whatever shape or form.”_

_“Heh . . . I kinda like that arrangement.”_

_“Oh, don’t get all chuffed about it!”_

“It worked. Heh, heh . . . I got him to do it.” A giggle fled from his lipless mouth. Gradually, his soft snickering swelled into a window-shaking cackle. Victorious, he flopped into his four-poster bed, grinning from jaw to jaw.

In all honesty, Sans thought he might have lost his chance when Wings dug into him. His brother’s magic was strong too, stronger than both his and Papyrus’ combined. It irked him to no end how powerless he was against Wings. Yet, he caught him, caught him by his insatiable curiosity and that was enough.

And she was closer to being his . . .

The very phalanges that caressed Frisk hours ago began to tingle. Although they were gloved, Sans could recount how soft her flesh was. That smooth skin gliding over his boney digit, quivering to his touch. How he wished he could feel it with his raw hand, sinking into that silky, cream-soft skin he could only dream of. 

If he had removed his gloves, he could have felt her hair as well. The way Frisk’s brunette hair brushed over his finger, how it shone with the glow from his eyes. Sans bet it felt as slippery as velvet. He could even recall a hint of rosemary, lavender and peppermint lingering somewhere on her body. Maybe it was the scent of her clothes, he could not tell. However, her broad periwinkle coat did little to hide her curvaceous form, shivering in the rain.

And those eyes . . . those rich, dark, penetrating eyes.

_**“This doesn’t make up for what you did earlier.”** _

Those words jabbed him awake. The tingle in his phalanges, the rhythm of his SOUL, the stickiness from his tongue and the heat from his loins . . . collapsed. Sans rubbed his hands over his tired eyes before collapsing into his bed.

 _Easy there, Sans— don’t to get ahead of yourself._ A long, red, glowing tongue slithered through his saw blade teeth, licking away a bit of drool. _No need to fret, poppet. Things’ll get better. I’ll make sure of it._

Licking his fingers, Sans pinched out the candle and let the darkness shroud him once more, his sharp gaze sputtering away into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Sorry about the long wait for this chapter. It sounds cliché but I had a lot of personal issues to deal with before I could return to writing, namely work and other family matters. And then I noticed that it took me _this_ long to type out a new chapter. However, I'm hoping that the next chapter won't take too long . . . fingers crossed.
> 
> The Victoria Embankment was the first street in London to be illuminated with arc lamps in 1878. The street was lined with Yablochkov candles, a type of arc lamp, to replace the gas lamps. However, the first street to be lit up by electric lights was Electric Avenue, Brixton in 1880.
> 
> https://www.sciencesource.com/archive/Yablochkov-candle--artwork-SS2459979.html
> 
> New Scotland Yard was built in Westminster, London near the river Thames. The North building was built from 1887 to 1890. The South building was built later from 1902 to 1906, when the police figured out that the first building was too small for their growing police force. Apparently, during the construction of the first building, they found a dismembered female torso on the work site and nobody has been able to figure out why. Today, the buildings are known as the Norman Shaw Buildings. Below is the link about the north building, which is a Grade I listed heritage site.
> 
> https://www.parliament.uk/about/living-heritage/building/northern-estate/normanshaw-parliament-st1/
> 
> Another interesting note I found out when I was researching about Scotland Yard was that there was a height requirement. The required height for an officer was 5'9" or higher. Which, when you factor in that the average height for a male in the late 19th century UK was around 5'5", is still pretty tall (or maybe that's just me talking, while I'm standing at 5'7"). They wanted their men to be a certain height so they can overpower criminals with their stature. Below is an article from the BBC about men's average height.
> 
> https://www.bbc.com/news/health-23896855
> 
> Colonel Sir Edward Ridley Colborne Bradford, or Sir Bradford as Loox called him, was the Commissioner of the London Metropolitan Police from 1890 to 1903. At this point in time, Sir Bradford had not yet been granted the title of Baronet. Although he made sure to link every police station by telegraph, he disapproved of the use of telephones and typewriters. He will make an appearance later on in the story. Below is his wikipedia article.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sir_Edward_Bradford,_1st_Baronet
> 
> Electrical lighting in the UK was still in its infancy during this era. The first public electricity generator in the UK was built in 1881 in Godalming, Surrey. Wingdings is up-to-date with new technology and loves to get it first before anyone else. Below is a link to history of electricity in the UK.
> 
> https://nmgroup.com/en-ca/resources/news/history-of-uk-electricity-network
> 
> The slum Wingdings was referring to was called Agar Town. The Midland Railway demolished the buildings there to make warehouses for the St. Pancras railway station.
> 
> **Slang Terms:**
> 
> Belt up: Shut up
> 
> Berk: Idiot
> 
> Bleeder: Contemptible person
> 
> Genning (up) or get up on: To find out about something
> 
> Ol' codger: Similar to old fart
> 
> Sacked: Fired, discharged from work
> 
> Bugger: Can be used as an exclamation of anger or frustration when used by itself
> 
> Hide the sausage: An euphemism for sex
> 
> Sods: Idiots (derogatory)
> 
> Slagging us off or to sag someone off: To verbally put down someone or something
> 
> Bastarding: Used as an intensifier
> 
> Muppet: No relation to The Muppets! Another term for an idiot.
> 
> Eyes like a shithouse rat: To describe someone who's very sharp and observant
> 
> Boxing our ears: An old-fashioned term for hitting someone on the side of the head or the ears, often to those who are misbehaving 
> 
> Off to Bedfordshire: Off to bed
> 
> Piece of skirt: A female seen as a sexual object
> 
> Are you having a laugh?: A rhetorical question, similar to "Are you kidding me?"
> 
> Chuffed: Pleased
> 
> We'll check in on how Frisk is dealing with this development in the next chapter.


	4. Lingering Shadows

_A gentle, warm hand stroked the length of her hair. Frisk’s eyes focused and she found herself resting her head in the lap of another. It felt so wonderful, so soothing, resting in the comfort of someone else. Beside her was another pair of legs, those of a man, laid outstretched in the field, beyond the small border of a checkered blanket. She did not wish to break away from that soft lace gown which cradled her. Nor did she wish for the two long legs next to her to walk away. All she wanted to do was watch the billowing breeze caress a hill of wildflowers, letting loose their seeds to the wind._

_How could she describe such warmth that embraced her? It felt endearing, unconditional . . . motherly, a comfort that eluded her for so long. It welled in her SOUL. A father who would protect her. A mother who would love her. A family to belong to. There was no greater wish in her heart._

_Yet, within those dreams, they remained formless. Only passing spectres, whose faces were veiled in shadows. Frisk dared not to look up, for it would break and all of her hopes within her._

_“Just a little longer,” she prayed. “Let me at least have this . . .”_

_But the grass turned yellow, the flowers wilted, the winds grew stale. The warmth left her sides and the world became ash and dust. The hand that once caressed her lost its tenderness, growing sharp and tangled. Frisk pulled away before it could steal away her scalp, but the world turned formless and empty._

_Dark, darker, yet darker . . . the darkness kept growing._

_Slowly she sank, deeper into the abyss. Thick it was, cloying and crushing her ribs with its weight. Frisk tried to swim in the inky pitch, but it fought back, pulling her harder, faster._

_She landed on something, it was hard yet smooth to the touch. Yet it rattled, clicked, popped and cracked under her as if it was . . . moving. Frisk tried to stand but the floor held to her fast, but it was then she knew that she did not land on a floor._

_Below her was a hand. A long, large skeletal hand . . ._

_In a panic, Frisk wriggled away from its long digits, only to find another large hand plucking her from behind. She fought and fought, kicking, punching, clawing, slapping, but all her attacks fell through as if she were fighting air._

_The hands clasped around her arms and waist, forming a vice of bones. She tried to wriggle her way through, but they only tightened._

_Something began to tear through the darkness, bulging and undulating, peeling away layers of black that Frisk thought was endless. It was red, blood red. An eye, larger than her whole body, broke through the pitch, then another struggled to open. They darted their haphazard gaze all over before they focused on Frisk._

_She froze stiff._

_To her horror, two more pairs of eyes opened their haunting stare at her, each neatly stacked on top of each other. Their vermillion glow stared daggers at Frisk’s SOUL, unblinking and relentless, rearing ever so close to her face._

_At once, that unflinching glare smiled back at her, pleased at their catch. “Perfect.”_

~

Frisk screamed herself awake, launching herself off her pillow. Clutching her chest, she tried in vain to ease her rattling heart, only to feel her shallow breaths weigh her down.

“It’s just a dream, Frisk,” she whispered. “Just a really, _really_ scary dream.”

With a head filled with lead, she fell back into her pillow again. She could not be bothered to open them again, but even the darkness did little to welcome her. Dreading what laid behind the veil of shadow, dreading those same rubious eyes penetrating her very being. 

Or worse, a set of ravenous teeth beaming back at her.

The dull drumming of the rain on her windowsill cooled her weary head, only letting in the dreary grey light of April through. Frisk just wanted to forget her night, that was all. Nothing stopped her from tearing through the house, kicking off her boots and rummaging through the liquor cabinet for something strong. All that was left was a bottle of brandy which she chugged down before storming off to her room, tearing off all her clothes and staggering into bed. It tasted something horrible, but she just wanted it to numb her. 

Now the same brandy she consumed began to mock Frisk in her stomach, stealing away her strength instead of her memories. She would rather be hungover than force herself to do anything and yet . . . she could not return to the same dream. What if the same sets of eyes returned? Or . . .

**_“I wasn’t done talkin’ with you, pet.”_ **

Mumbling a curse, Frisk buried her head into her pillow. The thought of Sans’ lingering stares began to prick her skin. Thoughts of his unwanted touches made her quake and froth with rage. And that voice of his . . . low, deep yet smoky, cloying and biting at each step she took, painting the air with crushing dread.

**_“Havin’ a great time without me?”_ **

“That fucking prick,” she murmured under her throat.

Furious, she tossed her pillow aside, threw back the sheets and stumbled over to the windowsill. Lifting the locks, she cracked open the window and let the cool air swirl over her body. Finally, she could breathe again. Dragging over a chair, she sat down, folded her arms on the windowsill and rested her drowsy head.

Frisk’s eyes wandered between the raindrops, over the roofs of her neighbour’s leaky eavestroughs and lastly, sinking to the quivering puddles, its surface plucked by a ceaseless barrage of rain. Nostalgia trickled into her head, releasing memories of when she would go out and play in the rain despite the cold. She lost count of how many puddles she tried to stomp into, seeing if she can make the biggest splash compared to the other children. Playing until they were out of breath, she would return to her dorm, wet as a whale, trailing in her muddied footprints to the dismay of the prefects and teachers. Although she was scolded by the others for the mess, Frisk always looked forward to the soft towels, fresh new clothes and a hot bowl of soup the prefects would prepare. It was on her weekends when she would be granted such a luxury at her school, but sometimes she would sneak out with a few friends after the schooldays were done.

At least, during those days, she felt less alone . . .

Pulling herself away, she gingerly wandered over to her bureau, minding the clothes she tossed onto the floor— and opened the top flap. Inside laid a tidy bunch of bits and bobs for her toiletries, but those did not matter to her now. In the centre, laid what remained of her faux hair in the folds of a lace handkerchief. 

Peeling away the sides, Frisk took a good look at her mangled memento and to her luck, she saved most of it. The netting that held it together was destroyed and the bun could no longer hold its shape, but the amount of hair she saved was what gave her tired face a smile. Her fingers began to pluck away at the netting, threading out the strands of hair and laying them back on the kerchief. Tossing the netting away, she then gently combed it with her brush and knotted the ends together with a little white ribbon. To her, it looked as if it was a large lovelock or a generous donation of hair for a wig.

The spider silk lace of the kerchief began to tickle her fingertips. Frisk paused, taking a good long look. With how dark it was that night, she had not realized how beautiful the handkerchief was. Rippling, needle-thin designs dressed the edges, forming into a waltz of flowers. From what she could tell, Frisk could see life-like roses, peonies, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums and dahlias fluttering within a sea of petals. A single finger glided over the design, taking in the feel of the fine detail.

**_“Here, you can use this.”_ **

And just like that, Frisk’s admiration turned bitter. Instantly, she recoiled her hand from the kerchief and stormed off. _Dammit, what am I doing admiring something he gave me? And why on Earth would he have a lace handkerchief on him?_

Donning a pair of slippers and a bathrobe, Frisk darted to the kitchen and took a bottle of vinegar from the pantry. Returning upstairs, she headed to the bathroom and began to fill the basin with lukewarm water. Adding a helpful amount of vinegar to her basin, she gently mixed it in with her hand and once it was ready, soaked a sponge and rubbed it against her skin. As much as she would love to have a nice long bath, Frisk felt her stomach latch onto her spine, pleading her to be fed.

 _Just hold on for a bit longer,_ she told herself. _I know you can manage that._

After her skin was patted dry, she poured the mixture over her head and gently massaged her short tresses. Splashing her face, she took a minute to rub the diluted vinegar behind her ears, but her eyes caught her soaked face in the mirror.

And the memory of his crimson glare broke through the glass.

**_“Look at you, all soaked to the bone. Here, lemme fix you up.”_ **

Bracing herself, Frisk dunked her burning face into the basin, long enough for her to gasp for air when she broke free.

Ever indignant, she spat out what little water remained on her lips. _That smug-faced bastard! Why can’t I get him out of my head?_

Stealing a towel, she wiped her face and wrapped it around her hair, returning to her room. There was a new set of clothes and undergarments waiting for her. Nothing fancy like what she wore yesterday, but she dared not look at them. The thought of Neill’s knife removing button after button from her coat made her skin crawl.

 _Not right now,_ she thought.

Clothes on, hair brushed, teeth cleaned and a little bit of rosewater to liven her dour complexion, Frisk head down to the foyer. She had already slipped on her boots when the door rapped. Her nerves snapped awake at the sound, but only for a second. Drawing in a breath, she reached for the door.

“Morning, Frisk,” Reggie beamed, shaking his brolly outside before welcoming himself in.

“You’re in early,” she replied wearily, putting on her belt purse.

“Really? It’s almost ten o’clock. There are a few things I need to—” Reggie’s beam suddenly vanished from his face. “Frisk, what’s wrong? You look haggard.”

Her hand paused before she should reach her hat, brolly and cloak. “Nothing, just . . . had a long night.”

“Don’t tell me you were turned down again?”

“Y-Yeah, and well . . . I’m not in the mood to talk about it now.” 

She passed by him, hating herself for bringing down his chipper mood. Before she could escape, Reggie clapped his hand on her shoulder. Their eyes met, but to her astonishment, his eyes were laden with genuine worry. 

“Frisk, you can tell me if something happened—”

On cue, her stomach let out a whinging grumble, making both her and Reggie go red. “S-Sorry Reggie, but . . . can we talk later? I just need some nosh right now. I’ll be at the Sunset Café if you need me.”

Reluctantly, Reggie released her shoulder. “Sure, take your time.”

“I won’t be too long,” she managed a smile before opening up her brolly.

“When you come back, there’s some news I wanted to share with you.”

“As long as it’s good news,” she replied, managing a smile.

“If it all goes well, it’ll definitely lighten your load.”

“So you don’t know for certain if it’ll be good news?”

“What? Do I need to say it out of my arse in order for it to be true?”

A laugh broke through her lips. “Please don’t,” she beamed, feeling more of herself returning to her.

“Oi, Frisk,” Reggie called out to her before she opened the gate. “Don’t eat all the turnovers when I arrive.”

“Really? Then I’ll ask Abbey to serve you personally. Unless Agnes is around . . .”

“Of all the—!”

She sped off into the streets, led by the rattling chain held by her ornery stomach. Nothing kept Frisk from her goal, not the foul stench of London, the pelting rain, not even the cigar butt that she trampled on in her haste.

~

Serenaded by the elegant tinkling of the doorbell, Frisk drew in a deep whiff of the fresh pastries that wafted from the kitchen. Swirling scents of cinnamon and peaches, cherries and honey, treacle and sugar tickled her nose and tongue. This aroma was far more welcoming compared to the soot, road apples and factory smoke of London’s congested streets.

A figure turned to her, beaming from ear to ear. Clad in white and blue, she looked like the model waitress, pretty and perky, not a hair out of place from her cap. Abbey had what Frisk can only describe as a cheerful radiance to her. If there was a lingering sliver of magic in each human, long forgotten in use by man— then Abbey’s magic was her smile. 

Platter in hand, she trotted over to her guest and embraced her. “Frisky! How’ve you been, love? Are you doing better?”

“Define better,” she joked, returning Abbey’s hug. “I would kill for something sweet right now.”

“Really? Mum just made a new batch of biscuits and turnovers if that’s what you fancy.”

“Well, what kind of turnovers do you have?”

“Apples, cherries, there were some chocolate ones too.”

“All of Reggie’s favourites, eh?” she inquired cheekily.

Abbey’s cheeks turned beet red. “H-Hey! I didn’t mean it like—!”

“Abigail,” a voice called from the other side of the café bar. “If you’re done faffing about, there’s an order for Mr. Blythe in the back.”

“Mum, I’m not faffing!” she pouted.

But Agnes, her mother, shot her a curt stare which broke through. “Serve this before it gets cold.” Abbey took the plate, but not before whispering something to her mother’s ear. Before Frisk could choose a table, Agnes waved her over. “What are you doing, hiding away in some corner? Come here Frisk and keep ol’ Agnes company.”

“Abbey wasn’t enough company for you?” she asked, pulling up a stool.

“No, but other than that,” beneath the bar, she pulled out a stack of newspapers and handed them over to her. “Here, we saved the help wanted ads for you.”

“Agnes, you shouldn’t have,” she beamed.

“Beats hounding down every newsagent's shop in London, right?” The middle-aged woman gave her a pencil for her to use. “What would you like, love?”

As much as she wanted to eat something light, Frisk could not control her nagging stomach. “Belgian waffles with a cup of Earl Grey cream tea.”

Agnes gave her a nod and began to prepare her tea. Unleashing a tide of newspapers, Frisk began to read article after article crammed into tight little squares. But the sea of words and letters drowned her senses. Her pencil barely traced over the paper, there were too many she remembered applying to who turned her away. And she would be damned if she was going to go live in a workhouse where misery blistered everyone into a miserable pile of puss.

**_“Well, since you’re in-between jobs and all . . . How about you work for me?”_ **

Enraged, Frisk slapped the last of the unwanted pages onto the bar and rubbed her temples. _Damn prick! What’ll it take you to get out of my head?_

“Frisk, you’re scowling.”

The sudden chime of Agnes’ voice broke Frisk from her thoughts. Looking up, she saw the middle-aged woman with her tea ready.

“Was I? Sorry . . .” Frisk could practically feel her cheeks burning in shame.

“Here, for your nerves,” both cup and saucer clinked delicately before her, already steeped with the sweet scents of vanilla and citrus.

Frisk’s eyes veered back and forth on the countertop. “Agnes, where’s the sugar?”

“I noticed how many lumps you took with your tea and I figured you ought to be cut off.”

“You _do_ know I can’t drink tea black, right?”

“You’re going to drain my supply with all that sugar you dump in your tea.”

A grumble formed in her throat. Instead of her coveted sugar, she reached for the next best thing, a splash of cream to lessen the impact. Despite living in a tea-centric nation nearly all her life, Frisk never liked the taste of weasel-water, unless it was sweet.

She took a deep swig of her tea, much to Agnes’ dismay. With her hostess’ eye on her, Frisk took another sip of her tea, this time with the ladylike grace Agnes approved of. Out of all the people she had come across, Agnes acted more of a mother to her than she would come to experience. At least, that is what she thought.

“Found anything promising, love?” Agnes prodded with a kind smile.

“Nothing worth writing about,” she sighed. “I’ve practically traipsed all throughout London and back with nothing to show for it.”

“Thing’s will fall into place, dearie. Nothing’s gained when it’s rushed.”

“You sure you don’t have a spare spot for me here?”

“If I did, I would’ve said so on the spot. However, we’ve barely broken even for a few months.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“There’s not enough traffic. Rest assured, when we get more customers, we’ll bell you.”

Frisk’s eyes softened. “Thanks, Agnes . . . for everything.”

Agnes merely smiled to her, giving her a plate laden with waffles that graced her senses. It had all the toppings she loved, a thick dollop of whipped cream and assorted berries. After a quick thank you, Frisk devoured her food, savouring the sweet blueberries and raspberries popping between her teeth and the crumbly but warm texture of her waffles melting into pure bliss. This is what she needed, pure edible joy. Yet Frisk had not realized how ravenously she ate away at her plate until the last bit of cream was scooped up. 

Nevertheless, even in this short respite, surrounded by warm comforts and kind faces— her thoughts lingered on that dreaded night. She could already feel the torrent of thoughts pelting at her head.

_How could Sans seamlessly blend into the shadows? Yet, I remember seeing his eyes in the darkness. But he just appeared behind Neill like he was nothing. Was he watching me when Neill and his thugs were chasing me? Hell, he practically appeared behind Neill just before it got dangerous. Probably thought he was trying to look heroic, the bloody freak. And the way he—!_

Memories of their mangled bodies, death masks and dusted remains etched deep into her mind. She shook her head violently. _God, what’s it going to take for me to forget that bugger?_

**_“You see poppet, my brothers and I are what you may call an elite faction of law-keepers.”_ **

Gingerly, she placed her utensils on her plate. _Well, it’s not like I can go to the coppers about it. If he says he works with them, then it’ll be a steep accusation. Not like they’ll listen to someone like me. If anything they’ll think I’m lying, hallucinating or worse . . . that I’m hysteric._

A sharp reminder rang in her ears, a memory that she loathed from the core of her SOUL.

**_“Piss off! We don’t ‘ave time ta listen to grubby lil’ sprogs like you!”_ **

Her eyes wandered down to her empty plate, wishing she had more sweet things to stuff away. _Still, if what Sans said was true, then he must have been spotted around London somewhere while he was working. It’ll make sense if he does his patrols in different boroughs each night. I wonder . . ._

“Say, Agnes,” Frisk asked, waiting for her server to notice her. “Have you seen any odd monsters around lately?”

“Frisk, all men and monsters are odd in their own peculiar way. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Have you seen any monsters that were _unique_?”

“Can’t say I have. Abbey?”

“Yes, mum?” she said, her tray piled with dirty dishes.

“Frisk’s asking if we’ve seen any odd-looking monsters.”

Embarrassed, Frisk tried to interject the two. “I didn’t mean like—”

“Well, there was this slime monster child that was sweeping the streets the other day,” Abbey began. “Poor thing wasn’t only sweeping away horse apples, but his own slime as well. I felt so bad for him, I gave him some money to buy food.”

“Abbey, that’s sweet of you, but if you did that to every urchin in London, you’ll have nothing left,” Agnes exhaled.

“Call it giving alms to the poor, mum.”

“Honestly, girl—!”

“Agnes, Abbey, listen please!” Frisk pleaded. “I should’ve been more clear. What I wanted to ask is if any of you have seen a skeleton monster around here before.”

Both of them stared at her, confounded by her statement.

“Ugh! No way and no thank you!” Abbey shuddered, she dropped off her dishes and took an order to a customer.

Agnes sighed at her daughter’s antics before she answered back. “Never heard of a skeleton monster before. But that begs the question, does that mean you’ve seen one?”

Frisk merely froze up, trying to advert Agnes’ gaze, but the middle-aged woman failed to fall for her silence.

“Well, if that were the case, it must have been a rare breed of monster. But that’s the thing with a rare breed, it means there’s only a few left and that means they’re a dying breed.”

 _A dying breed? That’s oddly befitting for a skeleton,_ Frisk thought. She shook her head violently. _Stop thinking about that snarky bonehead, Frisk! You have better things to do, like looking for a new job, finding somewhere to stay . . . and praying your new guv will be nice to you . . . ___

__Just when she was about to grab the newspaper next to her, the front door swung open. Her eyes shot up, it was Reggie, already gasping for air at the entrance._ _

__Abbey nearly lost her serving tray at the sudden bang but lightened up when she saw who it was. “R-Reggie, what’s the matter? You look like you ran a marathon.”_ _

__“W-Where’s . . . F-Frisk?” he panted, grabbing hold of his knees for support._ _

__“Buggeration!” Agnes shouted, staring daggers into Reggie’s SOUL. “Young man, you better have a good excuse for slamming my door.”_ _

__Reggie was so frightened that he shot up straighter than a soldier. “S-Sorry, ma’am! I-I need to s-speak with Frisk.”_ _

__“Reggie, what’s wrong?” Frisk asked, slipping out of her stool._ _

__“It’s . . .” Reggie took a moment to catch his breath. Despite being as slender as a blade of grass, he could not run a block without having to beg for air. “There’s someone . . . on the phone for you, Frisk. He . . . h-he wants to talk to you about a job.”_ _

__Frisk’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Is he still on the phone?”_ _

__“Y-Yes, he said he would be on hold until—”_ _

__No sooner did Frisk slapped all she owed to Agnes on the table and sprinted out the door with everything she had. “Thanks for the nosh!”_ _

____

~

By the time Frisk reached home, she was already out of breath. It was like she was trying to run away from Neill and his thugs all over again. She shoved the door open, tossed her umbrella, hat, gloves and cape to the side and ran into the living room where the phone was. It was one of the few appliances that they had not packed away, just in case of an emergency. She remembered how Mr. Fox would contact his clientele through the phone, often saying it was much easier for him than communicating through those obnoxious telegraphs.

She took a moment to catch her breath. Behind her, Frisk could hear Reggie huffing and puffing from behind, his face flushed red.

“Do you know the name of the person on the phone?”

Reggie stumbled forward, his hands clutching his knees for support. “He . . . H-He went by . . . Sir Gaster.”

“Gaster?” Frisk uttered to herself. _Gaster, Gaster . . . I don’t remember such a name before. Maybe it was one of the earlier interviewers I did when I started out. Still, I don’t remember going to the address of a knight or baronet._

“I’ll . . . I’ll go into . . . the kitchen,” he gasped. “Good luck.”

Frisk waited until Reggie dragged himself into the kitchen before she ran over to the living room. Once there, she straightened herself up, drew in a cooling breath and held the phone.

 _Please, please say that you want to give me a job,_ she begged in silence.

“Hello, Sir Gaster? This is Frisk Terme. You wanted to speak to me, correct?” She held her breath until she heard the other side of the phone crackle like it was being brushed against something.

“Ah, greetings Miss Terme! I’m practically tickled that I was able to get a hold of you. I hope I didn’t catch you at an unfavourable time.”

For a moment, Frisk was taken aback by the voice she heard. It had a smooth, noble ring to it, but it was pleasant and affable, almost endearing. She took a moment to think back to one of her interviewers who had said voice, but none of them came to mind.

“No, not at all, sir! Thank you kindly for your patience. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long, sir.”

“Nonsense, my dear! I simply caught you a little earlier than expected. But I digress, I’m sure you heard from your colleague that I’m interested in hiring you.”

“Yes, I did sir.” Frisk paused briefly before she continued. “I-I hope you don’t find this rude but, I don’t remember meeting someone by the name of Sir Gaster before.”

“Before? Oh, I see. Please forgive the misunderstanding, but this is technically our first meeting.”

Frisk raised a curious brow. “Our first meeting?”

“You see I was recommended for your services by another.”

The sides of her lips perked up. Frisk had never been recommended by someone else before. Maybe it was one of her previous interviewers who saw her potential. Maybe one of them thought she would be better suited for a friend of theirs. Whoever came to her aid, he or she took what felt like fifty pounds off her shoulders.

Regardless, she wondered who the name of her guardian angel was. “Oh, really? Do you know who?”

“I’m sure you remember bumping into my brother Sans last night. He’s hard to forget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. I hope everyone is doing well and washing their hands. This chapter is a bit shorter than the previous chapter I wrote, mainly because that chapter had a lot of content to it and overwhelmed me to no end. So, I figured writing a shorter chapter would help with said problem.
> 
> Researching for this chapter made me look up some interesting things . . . like the history of bathrooms. This made me glad that I set the time period to the late victorian era and not have to write about chamber pots. Below is one of the links I used for research.
> 
> https://www.brownstoner.com/architecture/victorian-bathroom-history-plumbing-brooklyn-architecture-interiors/
> 
> Another interesting subject I had to research was how women kept themselves tidy and clean. There were several ways to wash oneself in-between baths and how to wash their hair without the invention of shampoo. Frisk used a water vinegar solution for her hair and body, but I've read articles where people used things such as eggs, black tea, rum or ammonia to wash their hair. Please don't wash your hair with ammonia! Below are a few links for your perusal.
> 
> https://nypost.com/2016/10/23/the-beauty-routine-of-a-victorian-woman-was-anything-but-glamorous/
> 
> https://www.ourheritageofhealth.com/victorian-shampoo-alternatives/
> 
> So, when I was writing this chapter, I came across an interesting bit of history regarding pubs and coffeehouses. Originally, I wanted Frisk to go to a pub to have a quick meal, but when I was researching on pubs, I learnt that they were strictly a gathering place for men. If a women were to go there, she was considered either without morals or a prostitute! So the scenery had to be overhauled into a café. Cafés or coffeehouses during the Victorian era were an alternative to pubs, which forbade serving alcoholic drinks (many coffeehouses were run by the Temperance Movement) but as places where the working class could meet and socialize. Below are some links.
> 
> https://www.arasite.org/jarod.html
> 
> https://www.historic-uk.com/CultureUK/English-Coffeehouses-Penny-Universities/
> 
> The young slime monster that Abbey mentioned who swept the streets had a specific job called a crossing sweeper. They would sweep up any filth or debris in front of a paying patron so they wouldn't get their shoes or clothes soiled. This was a very deplorable job, not only did they work no matter the weather, but they were easy targets to be run over by horse-drawn carriages. The following is a link to more nasty jobs the poor had to endure.
> 
> https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/503221/10-worst-jobs-victorian-era
> 
> On a lighter note, here's a link to different types of Victorian teas. Just for the fun of it.
> 
> http://gracehitchcockbooks.com/a-guide-to-victorian-tea/
> 
> **Slang Terms:**
> 
> Bits and bobs: assorted items
> 
> Brolly: Umbrella
> 
> Whinging (Whinge): Whining 
> 
> Road apples: a polite way to say horse dung
> 
> Faffing about: doing things in a disorganized way and not achieving very much
> 
> Newsagent's shop: Newsstand (American and Canadian English) or newsagency (Australian English)
> 
> Weasel-water: Used in reference to tea when it tastes bad or any drink that isn't to one's liking
> 
> Sprogs: Children
> 
> Buggeration: An exclamation of surprise 
> 
> Sod(s): an unpleasant or obnoxious person/persons
> 
> Nosh: Food, can also mean to eat food enthusiastically or greedily depending on usage
> 
> We'll see how this call will turn out in the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. This is my first work on AO3 so I'm quite anxious. I've planned out a few chapters as of now, but I'm not sure how long this story will go (Has a habit of planning out long stories). My apologies if anyone encounters some awkward grammar.
> 
> There's a bit of English lingo sprinkled throughout that might perplex some readers who are unfamiliar with this form of slang. I'll dedicate a section after each chapter.


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